The Hollow Men
by notmanos
Summary: Post X2: Logan discovers Bob is out of commission, and he himself is the target of a mysterious hunt by several parties. If that weren't enough to contend with, the Organization finally shows it hand fighting revenge with revenge.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine & the X Men is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are all mine. Mitts off.  
  
N.B.: Takes place shortly after "X2", and directly after "Anodyne".

* * *

THE HOLLOW MEN

* * *

1  
  
Logan was still out cold, but it looked like he was finally healing up, which was good. Marcus wondered if he was still drugged, though. How long did 'anodyne' last - how long could it last? He could go ask Tony, but he doubted he knew. Tony might have withheld crucial information, but he was hardly a junkie or a drug baron.  
  
He had just gotten up to leave the cabin and go find a drink (god, he could use a beer), when Logan gasped so suddenly he jumped, pivoting on his heels and instinctively reaching for his gun. Logan was sitting up, staring at the far bulkhead, eyes so dilated it was a joke to think he could focus properly on anything. "Bob," he wheezed, still sounding both stoned and worse for wear. " Something's happened to Bob."  
  
Marcus didn't know if it could be real, or was simply a hallucination. "Huh? How do you know that?"  
  
Logan rubbed his eyes, and swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I … dunno, I just …felt something."  
  
"Like what?" After Logan shook his head helplessly, he suggested, "Was it like a thousand voices crying out at once, and then falling silent?"  
  
Logan glared at him for a full thirty seconds; considering how dilated his eyes were, it lost some of its impact. "I always knew you were a closet Trekkie," he accused.  
  
He shook his head, and sighed inwardly, as if Logan could make snide remarks, he was probably okay. "C'mon man, kidding aside, what was it?"  
  
"I dunno. Fuck, I don't feel right. What happened to me?"  
  
"What's the last thing you remember?"  
  
He had to think about it. "Jumping into a helicopter like a moron."  
  
"Okay, well, that's what happened. And you were in so much pain, I … uh … kinda gave you some anodyne."  
  
"Anodyne? Opium? Why? I'm immune to opium."  
  
He thought anodyne was a generic old fashioned name for a painkiller. Did it refer specifically to opium? Leave it Logan to know something like that. Couldn't give you his full name, couldn't tell you his age, but could define the term "onomatopoeia" in thirteen different languages. Show off. "No, although I'd guess opium is in it. It's that weird drug we found in the box at Tetsuo's."  
  
"That demon-y stuff?"  
  
"Yeah. Well, I figured it wouldn't hurt you."  
  
He grimaced sourly, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered it. "Yeah, well, I guess it won't." He moved his head side to side, as if trying to work some kinks out. "I hear engines. We heading back to Canada?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"Gotta phone here that'll work? I should really call Bob, see if he's okay." He paused, stared at a point over his shoulder. "Are the walls moving?"  
  
He looked behind him and checked, because frankly you could never be too sure. "No. Why?"  
  
Logan opened his eyes wide, as if trying to force them to focus, and then shook his head, trying to clear it. "Holy fuck, this is some strong stuff."  
  
"It's the schiznit, huh?"  
  
"I have no idea what that means."  
  
"Neither do I. I'm just tryin' to sound cool."  
  
Logan rubbed his eyes again, this time with the palms of his hands. He must have been trying to get himself to focus, but Marcus really didn't see how that was going to help. "You feel okay, though?"  
  
"Yeah, great." He stopped trying to grind his own eyeballs out of their sockets and looked down at himself as best he could, fingers trailing lightly over the few remaining wounds on his blood caked skin. "In fact, I've never felt better in my life." It sounded like he scoffed, but when Logan looked up, his mouth was twisted in a curious half smile. "I feel … light."  
  
Marcus cocked his head to the side, trying to puzzle that one out. That could be taken in a couple of different ways. "O - kay."  
  
"I mean, I feel like everything's all right; I don't feel … well, scared. There's nothing to be scared of. Everything's good."  
  
"Scared? The guy who jumped into the helicopter gunship thirty stories up above Hong Kong is claiming to have ever been scared?"  
  
"Oh, come on, why would I be scared of that?" He replied, scoffing for real this time. "What's the worst that could have happened there? I woulda killed myself? So fucking what? Naw man, I'm not scared of dyin'. Been there, done that, bought the souvenir novelty items. I'm scared of more prosaic things."  
  
Marcus stared at him in mild surprise. "You just used prosaic in a sentence. Are you sure you're okay?" He'd also admitted to be scared of something, as well as perhaps being a tad insane (not afraid of dying? For all his posturing, Marc knew that was something he wasn't eager to experience). Logan was definitely still under the influence of anodyne - and he was getting the sense he was starting to see a different side of Logan, or at least one who had not only dropped his guard, but lost it behind the sofa.  
  
Logan chuckled again - now this was getting fucking unnerving - and stood up. It took him a moment, and he had to lean against the bulkhead to right himself. Marcus had started to go over to help him, but soon stopped, as he wasn't sure he wanted to get close until he knew who he was dealing with, and how psychedelic the drugs really were. "I'm great. I haven't felt this … whole in a long time. Ever."  
  
"Whole?" A funny term to use. And just because he was curious how far this Logan was willing to go, he asked, "What are you afraid of?"  
  
Logan grinned at him, revealing bloody teeth (oh, right, he got shot in the face, didn't he? At least those holes had healed up …), and his slightly glassy green eyes seemed to gleam with an odd light. It suddenly occurred to him he'd never really seen Logan looking happy before, and frankly, it was kind of creepy. Maybe it was the fact he was covered in blood. "You're looking at him, Marc."  
  
"What? You're afraid of yourself?"  
  
He pointed at him with enthusiasm, like he just made the correct guess in a game of charades. "Bingo! If I had a cookie, I'd give it to you." He pushed himself off the wall and tried to walk, but he almost instantly lost his balance and fell back against the bulkhead once more. "Well, I guess hopscotch is out, huh?" He giggled, and Marcus felt genuinely freaked out now. If it was just stoned out of his gourd Logan, he could deal, but … he couldn't shake the feeling he - the drug - had unleashed something inside Logan. He just wasn't sure if it was good or bad, or a little bit of both.  
  
"Why would you be afraid of yourself? Just 'cause you flip out every now and then - "  
  
"Flip out? Marc, why are you sugar coating it? I go psychotic; I have a break with reality and my own goddamn body. The beast in me comes out; the programming that served me so well when I had nothing else. But, ya see, sometimes … sometimes I can feel it gaining supremacy, y' know? It's really tempting to give up and never come back."  
  
Okay, now he knew this was a different Logan. He would swear the voice had even changed, ever so slightly. His now obliterated Canadian accent was starting to make a comeback, at least in his vowels. Marcus felt like a psychiatrist who just realized he was talking to his patient's heretofore unknown second personality. "Do you remember your name? When you were born? Where you're from?"  
  
He gave him a look that was half surprised and half amused. "Now how the hell would I know that? I know the schisms, but I don't know the data. Wish I did."  
  
"Schisms?"  
  
"The partitions. The different bits, the parts where I was broken down and built up again. You know, the programmed personality - as thin as it was - may be gone, but the programming remains. And it is strong, getting stronger all the time."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Logan shrugged, that curious half smile still on his face. "'Cause I want it to. It's easier, y'know? Sometimes it's easier to let go than to hang on, especially when it hurts so much. That's how they always got me - I was always my own worst enemy. It's easy to get a guy like that." He looked down at himself, at all the blood and his seriously torn jeans, and said, "I think I'd better get cleaned up before I scare someone shitless, huh?"  
  
"Might be a good idea. Wanna call Bob first?"  
  
"Yeah, I really should."  
  
"Stay here, I'll get you the phone."  
  
He gave him a lopsided grin. "I think that would be for the best. Thanks."  
  
"No prob." Frankly, he was happy to leave the cabin, if only for the moment. This Logan was interesting, but kind of scary in a very obscure way.  
  
There was nothing worse than a guy who knew he was fucked up, but felt good about it all the same.   
  
What the hell was in anodyne?   
  
2  
  
It felt good to be so busy there was no time to think. Scott found he really didn't enjoy too much alone time, but that in itself was no shock: he never had, and probably never would. It either meant he was Human, or he had a serious character flaw; he didn't know which, but he didn't want to know.  
  
Still, beware what you wished for, right? Xavier was gone, visiting one of his mysterious friends, and Storm had taken some of the older girls on a trip to the local mall, which was a task he was happy to miss out on. He just couldn't get that excited about clothes, which he assumed was a guy thing. Well, judging from reality television, a straight guy thing. Or at least straight guys who weren't "metrosexuals", whatever that was.  
  
Sometimes he didn't get life. But then again, he supposed no one was supposed to get it.   
  
Most of the kids had no problem keeping busy, as many had assignments they hadn't completed, while the rest were out in the back, enjoying the sunshine. He knew he should be out there with them, keeping an eye on things, but he found himself aimlessly wandering the halls, like a ghost looking for someone to haunt. He felt useless; he felt lost, even though he knew exactly where he was. He hated this feeling, but he didn't know how to stop it.  
  
Keeping busy seemed to be his only option. He had been working on his new bike, tuning up all the cars in the garage, and he was working on the engines so much he seemed to have permanent grease beneath his fingernails that no amount of scrubbing could get rid of. Now he feared he was becoming obsessive compulsive. Oh crap, when did he become such a neurotic mess?  
  
Maybe when his world got turned upside down. Not once, but several times. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if it didn't keep happening, one upset after another. He assumed he needed a vacation, but he had no idea what he would have done with himself if he did have one. Go nuts maybe.   
  
He decided to head out back when Saddiq, once of the Eden kids with indestructible skin, appeared out of nowhere. He was a good looking kid, lean and lanky but still impressively muscular (certainly the girls around here noticed that), but because he was so obviously Arabic, he'd been occasionally hassled outside school grounds. But he didn't take it personally, as he said, "I hope they try something. They'll break their fist on my face." It was a distressingly Logan like attitude, but at least he didn't look for trouble, nor did he break out any of his lethal bodyguard training. He was a mild mannered teenager, quiet and respectful of authority, which made him appealing. "Mr. Summers, there's a guy coming up the drive. I don't recognize him, but he doesn't appear armed or in a offensive stance. Should I confront him?"  
  
Logan probably would have been proud of his instant security assessment. Obviously lifelong training died very hard. "No, I'll take care of it. Thanks Saddiq."  
  
"Shall I get some of the others and be on stand by?"  
  
This kid. You wouldn't think someone could actually be a born soldier, but obviously you could create one if you stared the indoctrination early. From what Saddiq and some of the other Eden kids from Rajan had told him, they had been trained as soldiers from the moment they started to walk. "No, it's okay. I'll send out the alarm if I need help."  
  
He gave him a mildly puzzled look. "There's an alarm?"  
  
Damn - he would catch him in a lie. "Yes, it's new. You'll know it when you hear it. Thank you." He turned and started walking down the hall, before Saddiq could question him further. You wouldn't think a "born" soldier would be so naturally skeptical.  
  
When he opened the front door, the sunlight was so bright he had to squint, and the man coming up the drive was a dark smear of a slowly moving shadow. When his eyes focused, he could see the man was dressed rather oddly for the warm weather, in a blue plaid flannel shirt, scuffed brown leather jacket, worn blue jeans, and tan hiking boots. He was young too, maybe mid-twenties, with scruffy brown hair, and his complexion was a little sallow, seemingly almost albino pale in the bright sun. He looked up as Scott headed down the drive towards him, and he pasted on a smile. "Hey, you live here?"  
  
"Yes. Can I help you?"  
  
"Gosh, I hope so. I'm looking for a man named Logan. Does he live here?"  
  
That made Scott stop, instantly wary and on guard. Anybody who knew Logan was never good. "No, not really. He doesn't live anywhere, does he?"  
  
The man smiled, revealing ivory teeth and pale gums. There was something wrong about this guy, but Scott could not, for the life of him, put his finger on it. "Naw, I guess not. He's still a nomad, eh? Still, does he come around here? 'Cause he said he did sometimes."  
  
"How do you know him?"  
  
"He got me out of a spot of trouble up in Canada a couple years back. I owe him." The man stopped, and seemed to eye him with uncomfortable curiosity, as if he realized he was being scrutinized. "Did I, uh, did I do somethin' wrong?"  
  
"No, of course not. So you're a friend of Logan's?" He didn't know why he still found that hard to believe, he just did. But then again, Logan did have friends - they were just all routinely some form of bad news.  
  
The man rolled his shoulders, a sort of half shrug. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and for a moment, it looked like something sparkled in his brown eyes - genuinely sparkled, like flecks of mica catching the light. "Kinda. He changed my life. And I hate to bug him, but … I kinda need his help again."  
  
"You're not a normal Human, are you?"  
  
He grimaced in embarrassment, glancing shyly down at the ground. Again, Scott caught that glimmer again, a brief spark of energy in the irises of his eyes. "No. Is that a problem?"  
  
"Shouldn't be," he replied cryptically. "What kind of trouble are you in?"  
  
He frowned then, looking almost defensive. "It's kinda complicated."  
  
"Everything about Logan is complicated. I'm getting used to it."  
  
It took him a minute to accept that that was as close to an excuse as he was going to get. "To be honest, I'm not sure exactly what's goin' on. About a week ago, these people showed up, askin' me questions about him. I didn't say anything 'cause fuck if I was gonna trust a bunch of strangers, but then … all this weird shit started happening." Tears welled in his dark brown eyes, which still showed an occasional flicker of sparks, and Scott guessed his powers must have been electricity based. "My apartment building burned down, an' for some reason my bank account got frozen, and then … I swear somebody tried to kill me a coupla days ago. I mean, somebody shot at me, and I don't know how they didn't hit me …"  
  
Scott didn't know if he dared believe him, but his tears seemed genuine, and the story he was telling - while paranoid - had a terrible ring of plausibility to it. While it was nice to think what happened down in Mexico -  
  
(Jean killed them all. Jean!)  
  
- had shut the Organization down, those bastards were like zombies in a horror film. They just wouldn't stay dead. "These people asking you about Logan - did they identify themselves?"  
  
He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and sniffed before he said, "No. They said they worked for the government, but they didn't really show me any i.d., and they said Logan was wanted. Is he? I mean, they said things about him that I just couldn't believe. I mean, I know he kinda has a temper, but -"  
  
"What did they say he was wanted for?"  
  
He hesitated, still sniffing, tendrils of silver energy as thin as a human hair still flickering across the minute gaps in his eyes. It was oddly beautiful, and yet extremely disturbing. "Th-they said … murder. Murder and terrorism. But I don't believe it! I mean … it can't be true, can it?"  
  
Murder? Because of all the Organization troops he'd killed? Actually, in today's day and age, the terrorism charge was more troubling, and made less sense - unless simply fighting Organization captivity was considered "terrorism". "Of course not, no," Scott reassured him. He was sure the charges weren't real at all - the Organization wasn't going to risk actual cops picking him up first.   
  
Scott knew very well this could be bullshit. But there was also the possibility it wasn't - they already knew he did actually make a couple of friends up in Canada before he joined them here (how else did they get the Eden kids?) - and all he could do right now, until he could contact Logan for confirmation (or until Xavier got back and scanned his mind), was ask questions and try to poke holes in his story. He glanced around cautiously, asking, "Do you know if you were followed?"  
  
That made him look around nervously, his lips twisting in obvious anxiety. "I don't think so. Ya think they might've?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe we'd better get inside, just to be safe." Even though he wasn't anxious to let this guy into the mansion until he knew if he was for real, or what his power exactly was, nor was he eager to attract the attention of the Organization again. But since Leonie came here, it was obvious they had never left their sights. Bastards. "Do you have a name?"  
  
"Oh yeah, sorry," he said, giving him a sheepish grin as tendrils of silver energy flitted through his eyes. "You can call me Cole." 


	2. Part 2

3  
  
When Helga answered the phone with a sharp, "What the fuck do you want?" it wasn't hard to guess there was something wrong.  
  
"Something's happened to Bob, hasn't it?" Logan asked. He still felt odd - aware he should be very concerned, perhaps even frightened, but anodyne continued to linger in his system, and he couldn't work up the emotions. He just felt too damn good, his muscles so warm and relaxed he'd have given up on standing, and was reclined on the bed once more.   
  
Helga paused, as if startled. "Logan? Holy shit yeah, something really fuckin' bad has happened. You knew?"  
  
"I felt … something."  
  
"It is just you, right?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
She sighed heavily. "Okay, yeah, must be. That's good."  
  
"What did you mean is it just me?"  
  
"If Bob was dead, you'd be him. I mean, his power would have transferred completely to you. You're his avatar, remember? His vessel."  
  
"Please don't call me a vessel." But he should have known that, shouldn't he? After all, that's how she ended up with Camaxtli's power, wasn't it? "Wait, are you saying you don't know what happened to him?"  
  
She made a noise of derision. "Well, he was attacked, and whoever did it left a supernatural mark on him, but I don't know what it is, why it would it effect Bob, or if he's dead or alive. I think I know who attacked him, but I'm surprised she left as much as a body behind."   
  
That didn't sound good. "Who did it?"  
  
"An insane goddess name Kalaratri."  
  
"Aren't they all pretty much insane?"  
  
"Yeah, but she's a cut above. And she has a grudge against Bob, because I think he helped imprisoned her in the Underworld after she lost her temper and went on a killing spree. Remember Krakatoa? Her work, apparently. Also, she … uh, she might be an ex-girlfriend or an ex-wife."  
  
Even through the hazy effects of anodyne, he knew exactly how bad that was. "You're shitting me."  
  
"I wish I was."  
  
Wow. Bob really knew how to pick 'em, didn't he? No wonder he thought he and Bob had something in common. " Okay, wait - you said she was imprisoned in an underworld? How'd she get out?"  
  
"It seems some stupid assholes managed to raise her. I'm not sure who or why, as my informant was almost burned to a crisp. Once he recovers, maybe he can tell me."  
  
Logan sighed and rubbed his eyes. "So going after her is a no go at this point?"  
  
"Not unless I can call up some major, major back up. And I can't contact other gods that easy. Look, do you still have one of the Ganesha fetishes Bob gave you?"  
  
That seemed like an odd question. "Maybe. Why?"  
  
"Hang on to it. I think we'll all need all the luck we can get."  
  
"Wow. It's that bad, huh?"  
  
"It's probably worse."  
  
"Where are you? Should I come..?"  
  
"No. I'm getting' Rags to take us back to L.A., there's a demon hospital there that can take care of Bob. Then … well, I probably got a lot of shit to do to track this bitch down. When I need your help, I'll call."  
  
"Will you?" Knowing Helga, she might do the loner thing. He would.   
  
"Yeah, I will. Just … you be careful, all right?"  
  
"You too. Keep me updated."  
  
"Sure." She hung up before he did, and he rested the receiver against his chin, closing his eyes and watching the colors pulse behind his eyelids. He still felt like he was containing sunlight beneath his skin, floating in a warm bath of it.   
  
This was bad - this was very bad. He should really be concerned. So he wondered why he just couldn't muster it up.  
  
4  
  
They were evil - they were all evil.  
  
This man was one of the worst. They told him what this place was. A home where the truly evil damned the souls of gullible children, freeing them for total consumption by the truly corrupt, feeding their supposedly "mutant" powers. This one was a ringleader.  
  
He was trying to be nice, in his stiff and false way, attempting to hide his suspicion, but Cole knew he'd be wary. He was told he might sense the good in him, especially since they'd given him power, but he didn't care. He only had to get inside, which he had done.  
  
The machine was here.  
  
It looked like an actual machine, but wasn't. It collected souls, consumed their essence and fed it directly to the things like this one across from him, this "Cyclops" (good god, he had a monster's name - no one figured it out?), but mostly strengthened the ringleader, a demon god in Human form. Called himself Xavier, apparently. And used Wolverine as his outer world killer, which made sense.  
  
Inside was magnificent. Lots of polished dark wood, inhumanly clean and decked out with artifacts that were undoubtedly expensive. Even here, the most evil lived the best.  
  
He had seen the plans, he knew what to do. Down this main corridor was an elevator - he would take it to the lowest floor, a hall of steel, and get the machine there. Once he had destroyed it, he could get out and move to his second assignment.   
  
But Cyclops wouldn't let him - Cyclops was here to stop him, to prevent the good from getting close to the circle of power. So he would have to neutralize him.  
  
He kept yammering on about how he met Logan, a preposterous tale they had him memorize, as he felt the power accumulate in his right hand. It had taken him little time to master, although it still unnerved him slightly, especially if he watched it happen. They called them "cherubim", although they admitted that wasn't quite what it was; they looked like tiny, almost microscopic silver ants, swarming through his skin like someone had kicked over their hive. He had something in his brain now, something that could dictate control over the power - he had no idea how it worked exactly, but he didn't need to know how; he was an instrument of God - and he had the cherubim coat his hand, make it metal, solidify into a point now retracted.  
  
Holding his right hand to his chest so he wouldn't see it, he stopped abruptly and pretended to look in awe at a painting just inside the front hall, letting Cyclops get ahead of him before the man stopped and turned back towards him, annoyed. "Is this a real Monet?" Cole asked, pulling a name out of thin air. Well, the picture, up close, seemed to be constructed of small blobs of blue and green and brown paint, and if that wasn't Impressionism, what was?  
  
The supposed man looked up at the painting, scowling slightly. "With all these kids here? No, I don't think so."  
  
"Oh. Pretty though."  
  
"Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly, and turned back down the hall. "If you'd-"  
  
But he never got a chance to finish whatever it was he intended to say. Cole grabbed him, and drove the needle thin point that now sprung from his hand straight into the back of his neck.  
  
Cyclops stiffened, frozen, unable to do anything as the power of righteousness surged through him. "We're on to you, demons," Cole snarled in his ear. "Your judgment day has come."  
  
He retracted the spike and Cyclops dropped to his knees before hitting the floor face first. Cole had no idea if he was dead or not - he was told the demons were very resilient - but he didn't care. Killing this thing was not his primary mission.  
  
Cole quickly ducked into the nearest elevator, and had it take him down to the secret level, the one that revealed the true nature of this place.  
  
He did not change his hand, only modified it somewhat - the point became even thinner, almost too thin to see, while it hardened to something called "adamantium consistency". The nature of the energy waiting in it changed as well; it felt almost like lava to him, but not in a bad way. When he was given these powers, they gave him an immunity to pain, and to injury; they said the power of the divine would infuse him. He was, for all intents and purposes, an angel now.  
  
But not a weak one, not just a holy messenger. Oh no, he was an avenging angel with a flaming sword, here to smite the wicked. Too bad there were so many wicked, and only one of him.  
  
The brightly lit, silver metal corridor was eerie in its basic sterility and silence, and while he was prepared to fight any other guardian demons, there were none. He was told that they were so arrogant they might not have any guards in the down below. Who was ever strong enough to challenge them?  
  
Cole giggled, and the sound seemed to echo. He was strong enough to challenge them now. In fact, they weren't strong enough to win.  
  
He came to the end of the hall, where a circular metal door waited. Behind that armored door was the well of souls, the place where the damned were consumed like chunks of meat. On the right side wall, a sensor node opened, glowed red like the fires of Hell, waiting for species confirmation. Cole knew he had no chance there, so he did what he was told to do.  
  
The nearly microscopic needle pierced the sensor eye easily, not even breaking the glass (or whatever it was), and he fed the energy of the righteous into it. Different energy this time; this time, he was attacking the system with cherubim, leaving remnants of the holy in a profane killing ground.  
  
The lights started to flicker, and he could hear the almost inaudible hum of energy waver, as if power flow was being disrupted. Excellent. He withdrew the spike, and ran back down the hall towards the elevator, aware it was going to get worse very soon.  
  
He kept his hand metal, in case he met resistance on his way out, and studied it as he waited for the elevator doors to open. It didn't look like his hand really, but a metal mesh glove that shimmered as if full of diamond dust, although it was just the cherubim, constantly in motion, infused with divine energy. It was almost hard to believe that he'd been given such a second chance, that he was chosen … but stranger things had happened, hadn't they? For one thing, Hell had turned about to be real, and yet, everybody thought they were still living on Earth. Weird.   
  
He peeked out of the elevator, and was slightly relieved to see the hallway was empty. He knew he should fear no evil, but it was hard not to sometimes. He still wasn't sure what he would do when he saw Wolverine again, that bastard. In theory, he figured he'd be pissed off enough to kill him on sight, but he knew whenever he had memory flashes of being killed by him, of seeing a ghostly flash of his demonically evil face as he brought the rifle butt into his vision, he got freaked out all over again. He just hoped he had the courage to act first when he saw him.  
  
He was half way down the hall when something hit him in the face.  
  
It smashed into him with the force of 747, and he heard his nose shatter, saw it as a flash of white light across his vision. There was an impact in his gut, and he felt his legs kicked out from him, making him land hard on his ass. But even as he came down he was scrabbling back across the floor, warm blood dripping off his chin, trying to get enough distance to see his attacker, the demon that came out of nowhere.  
  
It was a boy.  
  
A teenager - maybe fifteen, sixteen, he wasn't great at judging ages - tall for his age, but slender. He had black hair and eyes nearly as dark, skin the color of cream heavy coffee - what was he? Hispanic? Arabic? - and was wearing a Rammstein t-shirt and faded jeans a little too big for his slender hips. He was stalking towards him, actually stalking, like he was ten years older and a hundred pounds heavier, hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed, but head down, his eyes as cold and hard as onyx. Something in him, maybe the power of the divine, told him this kid could fight. Not half assed street stuff either - serious goddamn no bullshit beat down fight. He clearly knew the rules of hand to hand combat; he was aiming to disable or kill, whichever opportunity came first.  
  
"I don't want to hurt you," Cole told the boy, still scrambling back, trying to keep distance between them. He could feel the blood abate as his face felt suffused with the cherubim, but whatever it looked like as the power of the divine put him back together, the boy didn't react.  
  
"Bullshit," he spat, with a coldness that was far too adult for him. He said something else, but it wasn't in a language he understood. It was pretty weird though - the kid probably was Arabic. "You think you can just come in to our home and hurt us?" He said, going back to lightly accented English. He couldn't place the accent at all, but it sounded vaguely cultured.  
  
Cole finally got to his feet, but kept backing down the hall. He did not want to have to kill a kid. Okay, he was dead already, but from what he understood, to "die" in Hell meant you would be cast into a deeper, darker pit. To be this young and this clearly damned was bad enough. "They're not who you think they are," he said, aware this was against the rules, but what else could he do? Well, except kill him.  
  
But the kid was not buying it. He had a gimlet eyed stare that was unnerving, like he had switched himself off and let something else take over. "I'm tired of you shits who think you can come here and do this. You refuse to leave us in peace? Fine. Realize who you're dealing with; understand what you have declared war on." And then the boy moved, lightning fast. He telegraphed a high punch, left side, and Cole moved to block it, but it was a deliberate feint - the kid pirouetted smoothly half way through the move, and spun into a roundhouse kick that caught him flush in the right side. He stumbled back, feeling an electric shock that pretty much guaranteed some ribs had snapped on impact, and he felt enough discomfort in one lung to suggest puncturing was possible. If he was not God's instrument, it probably would have been enough to drop him momentarily, or at least stun him, leave him gasping for breath, and a moment would have been all the boy needed to finish this. How the hell was the kid this strong? Or this fucking good? It wasn't possible.  
  
("Realize who you're dealing with; understand what you have declared war on.")  
  
Oh shit, he wasn't a kid at all. He was just a demon that perversely chose to look like one. He would have to kill him.   
  
Cole pretended to be hurt, to be struggling to keep on his feet, and just like he expected, the demon moved to take advantage of it. He kicked out, trying to nail him in the face, but Cole straightened instantly, before he could land it, and grabbed his leg, yanking it forward and pulling the demon off its feet. But even while he was falling, the demon kicked out with his free leg, and caught Cole under the chin, snapping his head back so violently he lost his grip on the demon.   
  
How unnatural was this creature? It let itself hit the floor hard, head bouncing off the hardwood like a ball, but did he pass out, or even wince? It was as if nothing had happened to him at all. And, like he had a spring for a spinal column, he suddenly jumped up to his feet, that hard eyed, inhuman look still on his face. He moved his head briefly side to side, like he was working a crick out of his neck. "That all you got?" He asked. "I had rougher in primary school."  
  
Cole was still backing down the hall, but how long were the fucking halls in this place? The mansion now seemed to be a maze, a hell of distortion, and he felt his bowels go cold as he realized he hadn't hurt this demon, not one iota, and it was going to keep coming at him unless he found some way to kill it. So much for it being as easy as they promised.  
  
"Let me leave here, or die," Cole told him, aware he was lying - he would have to kill this demon. But a moment to regroup would have been nice.  
  
The demon thing didn't blink, didn't vary his expression at all. "No."   
  
Cole then remembered what had been in his head about fighting: attack first, make the demon defend itself. The way to control the fight - like the demon was doing - was to make your opponent react to your moves. See, that proved it - no teenage boy would know that, nor would they be so personally restrained and eerily cold. He was hardly out of his teen years before the Wolverine killed him.   
  
He lunged towards the demon, feigning a kick that the demon blocked with almost supernatural precision, but got Cole close enough to throw a hard right at his jaw - spike extending on his metalled hand.  
  
But on impact a terrible shock ran up his arm and through his body as the cherubim screamed at once: the spike could not penetrate his thick hide, and retreated hastily before it could receive injury on his accursed skin.   
  
The demon acted as if he hadn't been punched at all. He grabbed his wrist even as the cherubim were still in retreat, and with a simple twist, he flung Cole hard into the far wall, where he came very close to feeling pain as he nearly broke through the wood.  
  
Panic flitted through his mind as he realized all he had left was going back to adamantium consistency again, and if that didn't work … well, running for it was the only option, wasn't it? Taking off and hoping this damnable thing didn't follow him. Maybe he just wasn't ready to be a soldier for God.  
  
He let the cherubim recreate the adamantium spike - thicker this time - as the demon grabbed him by the throat and pulled him away from the wall, straight into a fist to the face. The demon's fist pummeled his face rapidly, shattering his newly repaired nose and shoving bone fragments deeper into him as Cole struck out blindly with his metalled hand, aiming for the chest, hoping it was softer meat than the face.  
  
It must have been, because this time the cherubim didn't scream, and he thought the thing stiffened slightly, its raised fist not quite meeting his face. Cole shoved it back, ripping his spike out of its chest as it hit the opposite wall with a satisfying thud. He knew the cherubim would keep him from losing consciousness, save for the most extreme of circumstances, but Cole was sure he almost had.  
  
The demon seemed to be bleeding red blood down from a hole near the center of its torso. Had he hit the heart? God, he hoped so. 


	3. Part 3

The demon looked down at the hole in his chest, seemingly stunned that he had been hurt. Good. "You have adamantium," it said. How did it know that? When it looked up, something like pain flashed through its dark eyes, and it looked like a boy. A Human, a real one, not a demon simulacrum.   
  
But it passed quickly. Suddenly his eyes were hard again, flinty, and while he put a hand over the bloody hole in his chest, he said, voice low and mean, "You're one of them, aren't you? You're after Logan."  
  
He felt a cold shock of fear through his heart. How did he know? How did it know?!  
  
Cole started backing away, not daring to turn his back on such a thing, and even though it was bleeding enough to splatter it on the floor, it kept coming for him. It couldn't be Human; not even close. "I don't want to kill you," Cole said, and it sounded like he was pleading. He supposed he was, and hated himself for it. But why didn't this damn thing just stay down?   
  
The demon's eyes flicked towards his adamantium hand and back up to his face, and he sneered, coming forward even as he almost slipped in his own blood. The strength in his eyes looked like it was fading, and yet he was still coming towards him, his expression a frozen mask of searing hate. Cole could hear his heart pounding in his ears, fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird, and he realized he was not prepared for all the demons. Not yet, and maybe he just wasn't ready to face the Wolverine either. If he couldn't get through the lackeys, what hope did he have?  
  
"He's going to kill you," the demon said. "I'll make sure of it." The demon then swung his arm, and Cole jumped back, just to make sure he was out of range. The demon shattered a Delft blue painted urn on a side table, and while Cole stared in fascination at how the shards of ceramic seemed to just bounce off his skin without penetrating it, he didn't realize the demon had picked up a large shard of it until it lunged at him.  
  
He brought up his hand, but not fast enough. The demon rammed the sharp ceramic fragment into his cheek and ripped down, tearing open his face from eye socket to jawbone. As he screamed in shock (was that pain?! They said he wouldn't feel it again!) and punched the thing in the chest again (surely stabbing it) before shoving it away, he could feel as well as see his blood spurt out and hit the wall, and he knew the demon had cut something major in his face. The cherubim would fix it, he knew it would, but why would it do something like this? Did it think it would kill him?  
  
No, he said the Wolverine would kill him … so why … and then he knew, with a sick dread twisting through his stomach. His blood, the blood of the divine, was now splashed all over the foyer and the hall, the orphaned cherubim glittering in the sticky redness like distant stars ...  
  
Scent. The scent of him, his blood, was seeping into the walls like a sponge. Oh no - he had been warned about that.   
  
The demon dropped to his knees, finally hurt or perhaps just unable to stay on its feet due to the blood, but It was grinning evilly at him, eyes agleam with some kind of triumph. "You're dead," it gloated. "You're dead!"   
  
Did it know they were all dead? Or was it just telling him the Wolverine would kill him? He didn't know, and he didn't care - it was all bad, all wrong.  
  
Cole turned and ran out of that hellhole, not caring that he was still bleeding copiously, leaving a trail that shimmered in his wake.   
  
He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to overthrow a demon god. They were just going to have to give him more help - or more power.  
  
If they could take his pain away, why couldn't they take the fear?  
  
5  
  
Logan stared at the sink full of bloody water, and wondered how often he had seen this. He suddenly thought of the Shakespeare line, what was it exactly? Something about "Who knew the old man had so much blood in him". Who knew he had so much blood in him? God he was tired. And stoned - very, very stoned. How long until this anodyne stuff wore off?  
  
It seemed to be, very slowly. He could at least walk to the bathroom with little help - he just had to lean against the wall every couple of feet - and sit down once he made it to the bathroom, his body still but his head feeling like it was taking a ride on a turntable.  
  
He managed to wash the blood off his chest and face, and changed into the jeans Marc gave him (and they were almost too big for him; they hung loose on his hips, and were on the verge of becoming those low riding pants that some teenage boys wore, a "fashion" that drove him fucking crazy. He felt like pantsing them all - what could they do? Chase him?   
  
His head occasionally swam around the room before coming back to rest on his shoulders, so he kept movements slow and to a minimum, although it didn't help much. He still felt very good about everything, even though it took him maybe thirty minutes to wash the blood off his torso with a towel. The t-shirt fit at least - but, seriously, did it have to be advertising something called "The Tiki Lounge"?   
  
He was going to wipe the blood out of his hair, but fuck it. After draining the sink of bloody water, he stuck his head in it and turned on the taps. The funny thing is, just bending down he felt like he was still falling even though he knew he wasn't, and when the water hit his scalp, it sent goosebumps rippling down his skin. It felt impossibly good, almost sensual, which disturbed him as much as humanly possible under the drugs. Was anodyne like ecstasy too? Not that he knew anything about that drug, but still, could be.  
  
So what was the end result of using anodyne? Okay, massively addictive (and he could honestly tell why it would be), but what was the demon/magical end of the bargain? What was the desired end product of getting people hooked on this? Did Marc have any left? Maybe he could give it to Angel, have his lab people examine it.  
  
"You still alive in there?" Marc shouted.  
  
"If I wasn't, I wouldn't tell ya," Logan shouted back, standing carefully (again, even though he knew he'd stopped, he felt like he'd kept going over backwards), and then towel drying his hair carefully. That too felt better than it should have, so he soon gave it up, tossing the faintly bloody towel in the corner along with the rest of the bloody towels, and ventured out of the cubicle like bathroom.  
  
Logan had to grab on to the edges of the door to keep his balance, and eventually just threw himself in the nearest chair rather than deal with the continued trouble of perambulating. Marc was casually slumped in a near by chair, apparently waiting for him to do just that. "Congrats," he said. "You don't look like a murder victim anymore."  
  
What on Earth did you say to that? Rather than respond to that, he simply asked, "Do I look as stoned as I feel?"  
  
"Hell yeah. All you need is a hacky sack, and you could be a guy outside any Phish concert anywhere."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"But hey, you can focus … kinda. That's an improvement."  
  
He shrugged. "I guess so. Look, we shouldn't land in Vancouver -"  
  
"We ain't gonna. I already talked to Yukio, and she's gonna bring us down at an airstrip in Burnaby, a secondary location. I wanted us to land even farther away from our primary site, like Edmonton, but she said we didn't have the fuel to go the distance. So Burnaby it is. Good enough?"  
  
Logan started to nod, but then so did the room, so he stopped. "Figured we might have a Yakuza greeting party?"  
  
"Yep. You know, your life may have actually become much harder now."  
  
"Hard to imagine, isn't it? But yeah, I guessed that too." He dry washed his face - weird, because it was still kind of wet - and took a deep breath. "At least the Yakuza seems to be the same bunch of pussies they always were."  
  
Marc chuckled, shaking his head but still giving him an approving smile. "Yer fucking nuts, man."  
  
"And that's why you like me."  
  
"Well, it makes you interesting." He shifted in his seat, and his whole demeanor changed, becoming more somber. "What's up with Bob?"  
  
"The usual. Attacked by a mad god, and out of commission. Hel's trying to figure out how to bring him out of it, and track the bitch down. She doesn't want me in until she's got some major back up."  
  
"Why'd this god attack Bob? Didn't like his hair?"  
  
"Maybe. Hel thinks this god might be an ex-wife."  
  
"Oh fucking ouch! That's gonna be a pain in the ass. Domestic disputes are the worst."  
  
"Tell me about it." Logan pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, and watched the colors pulse in time with his heartbeat. It was a pleasant light show.  
  
"By the way, while you're still stoned, you might want to talk to Tony."  
  
"Ah. Bad news?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Okay." he stopped watching the light show, took another deep breath, and braced himself to stand up. He was ready to do this - yes, yes he was. "Uh, little help?"  
  
"Sure," Marc replied easily, getting up with no problem at all. Fucking show off.  
  
He hoped that things were going better for Helga.  
  
6  
  
When they 'ported in, Helga wasn't sure they were in the right place at first.  
  
The hospital in L.A. - jokingly referred to as Saint Demonica in the demon community - was unlike a Human hospital in the fact that it was generally quiet and orderly, with the air scrubbers working overtime to keep the smells of everyone else from being overwhelming. But she and Rags, with the comatose Bob propped up between them, had 'ported into pure chaos.  
  
Dozens upon dozens of gurneys clogged the main corridor, full of different kinds of demons, ranging from a badly beaten vampire who appeared to be missing several teeth and an arm, to a slime demon bleeding all over the tiled floor, and everything in between. There were few gurneys with completely sheeted forms on them, corpses that someone had at least bothered to conceal. Nurses, doctors, healing demons, witches and warlocks all jostled between rooms and the emergency operating/spellcasting theater, just avoiding collision with each other and their patients, and Rags asked, "Is it always like thif? I've 'eard it's pretty calm…"  
  
"No, something's wrong." She saw a white coat moving out of the corner of her eye, and luckily it was someone she recognized. "Keelin!"  
  
Doctor Keelin O'Connor was a genuine emergency room doctor from Dublin who had the unfortunate luck of working on a patient whom everyone thought was just a violent drunk, but turned out to be a werewolf. Even though he was in Human form, he bit her hard enough on the arm to break the skin - and the next full moon, she found out she was a lycanthrope as well. Nothing ruins your medical career quite like that, so she had to leave Dublin, and, as luck would have it, she ended up in Los Angeles, where a friend was able to clue her in about St. Demonica. She was now chief of staff here.   
  
Keelin was short and not quite stocky, but she had a sturdy figure that pretty much meant that she'd never get that spot on a t.v. doctor show. Her reddish brown hair was cut in a short, practical style that kept it out of her face, but inadvertently emphasized her large, sapphire blue eyes. Helga had never seen her wearing any make up, yet she always seemed like a handsome woman who hardly needed it. In fact, sensible was the key word for Keelin, who seemed completely out of place in the wacky, impractical supernatural world: she was even wearing sensible flats, sensible navy slacks, and a sensible black blouse. Her white doctor's smock was covered with the blood of at least half a dozen different demons, and some of the black blood was smeared on her delicately pointed chin. She was snapping on a pair of new, unbloodied latex glove. "Oh, Helga, what - oh good lord, what happened to Bob? Did he get in on this?"  
  
"Get in on what? Did we miss another apocalypse?"  
  
She shrugged a single shoulder, almost nodding. "From what I've heard, Angel is wiping out the Senior Partner's support base, in a very personal and direct manor."  
  
"Oh, Christ on a cracker," Rags gasped, looking around in as much shock as yellow crystal eyes could reflect.  
  
"He's dead," Helga said, pointing out a undeniable fact. She was still surprised - that was absolute end game. The Senior Partners wouldn't let Angel get away with something like that; he had signed his own death warrant. Unless the Powers That Be directly stepped in - highly unlikely to extremely impossible - Angel would not live to see another sundown. But he probably knew that too.   
  
"Not quite yet," Keelin replied, jerking her head towards the traffic jam of gurneys.  
  
Rags's jaw dropped as if unhinging it. "He did all of thif himself?"  
  
"Personally? Probably not. He has friends, and all of this has been sending general panic throughout the demon community. People think it might be the end of the world, so they think it's the perfect time to settle personal grudges."  
  
"Oh great. It's a nightmare out there, isn't it?"  
  
Keelin's pale lips thinned to a grim line, and she nodded, wiping the blood off her chin with the back of a gloved hand. "Only Berserkers and people of Bob's power level could venture out there safely. But now even he …" As she visually examined Bob, it was her turn to gasp. "Gods, is that the mark of Typhon?"  
  
Helga looked at Bob's mark again, trying to figure how she saw the word typhon in it. "Is that what it is? You recognize it?"  
  
"From old Watchers journals, yeah."  
  
"What's it do?"  
  
"It traps energy beings in their current forms. It keeps them from shifting, or leaving, or using their power in any manner. Gods and demons alike." She carefully opened Bob's shirt, what she could peel away from the burned in mark, and seemed to search him for any other apparent injuries. "Is this all that was done to him?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Okay, let's get him on a gurney. The witches will have to work on this, but I warn ya, it's almost impossible to remove, save for the person who inflicted it. It takes an incredible amount of dark power to even wield the brand."  
  
Keelin commandeered an empty gurney being shoved past by a Belial demon, who gave her a dirty look for taking it from him, but then he saw it was Bob and wisely backed off. Belials had no leaders - they were all fucking self-involved liars, so there was no way they could be a cohesive unit in any sense of the term - but Bob was very close to being the de facto leader of the Belials. When Bob boasted that he was the "King of All Liars", he was only partially joking - if he sent out word for the Belials to assemble, they would, because being on Bob's good side was exactly where they all wanted to be. (Did that give her an idea? Maybe … )  
  
Once they had him laid out, she asked Keelin, "If we kill the thing that put this mark on him, would the mark disappear?"  
  
She had to consider that a moment, but eventually nodded. "I'd think so. Whoever's controlling this would be the power source."  
  
"Good." Now she just had to figure out how to kill this bitch, and Bob would be okay. Did she have any favors she could call in? Could she use Bob's connections?  
  
"Dakarai," Keelin said, calling over a witch in a purple silk turban, done up in an African style. She was wearing a brightly colored sarong in an almost matching shade of lilac, and she wore many necklaces, all of them fetishes of some sort: a scapula in a small velvet bag; a withered crow's talon; a protective amulet made of black tourmaline, and another of quartz; a pendant made of mummified mandrake root (a piece that didn't look so phallic); and a thumb sized Grimmon sprite's skull on a black cord. She clattered as she walked, like a drawer full of loose knickknacks. "Take Bob here to an intensive spell room, and see if we have anything on getting rid of Typhon's mark."  
  
Helga grabbed Bob's hand and kissed it, and leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Hang in there. We're gonna get you out of this, and we're gonna kick that bitch's ass. Talk to me if you can." She then kissed him on his forehead and backed up, letting Dakarai take the gurney away.  
  
"I'll let you know if we make any progress," Keelin promised her, and walked away as a fellow doctor and Hannock demon gestured violently for her to come over and help him with an eviscerated Fell demon.  
  
"Bloody hell. I don't think now's the time to be L.A.," Rags muttered.  
  
"You should be safe in your church," she replied sharply. Considering he had the Gorgons on his side, why did he have to be so fucking cowardly? Suddenly that reminded her, "Oh shit - Brendan." They'd left him at the Church of The Stone Temple, which was a renovated underground spot, inside a small network of abandoned water pipes that had been laid way back in the 1900's, for reasons now lost to time. But if you followed one of the pipes, it would take you directly to the L.A. "river".   
  
Rags yellow eyes sparkled in the florescent lights, and she would swear sometimes she could see all the way back to his brain. "As long as he didn't leave, he should be safe. The Sifters don't abandon."  
  
She knew he meant the Gorgons, but she found herself wondering where the Weird Sisters were. Did Angel ask for their help? It would be a suicide mission, but that would actually be a plus to the perverse little Weirds, and while Angel would be loath to ask for their assistance, they would be an undeniable asset. In fact, they could have filled this hospital all by themselves. If Angel didn't have them playing clean up, maybe she could recruit them to help her; they loved Bob, and they'd do anything for him. "Get to the church," she told him. "Make sure Brendan's there, and everybody's okay. I'll call you when I know more about what's goin' on."  
  
"If th' world's actually ending, you'll give us a head's up?"  
  
"Better believe it."  
  
"Thanks. Good luck." And with a murmur and a burst of silver glitter, Rags was gone.  
  
She weaved her way through gurneys, trying to figure out if she should set out for the bar, Bob's loft in the industrial district, or just make calls from the lobby. She wasn't afraid of venturing out - she wasn't afraid of no demons, or even fucking pissed off Senior Partners (they'd be more interested in Angel and his people anyways) - when she heard a strange noise in the overcrowded lobby. Someone singing?  
  
"-gimme shelter, or I'm gonna fade away -" Someone sang very softly under their breath, and she traced it to a man in a very loud suit, not so much sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs as doubled over in it. He was resting his elbows on his knees, and was looking down at the floor, hands over his ears, as if trying to block out reality itself. If the loud suit and the singing were clue, the small red horns on his head were. "Lorne?" She asked, making a beeline for him.  
  
He didn't hear her; he was singing to himself and rocking slightly, and she wondered if he was hurt. She stopped in front of him, and said, slightly louder, "Lorne."  
  
Finally the green scaled Anagogic demon looked up, and he seemed slightly dazed. "Hel, honeybunch, why are you here?" His eyes were red - well, they were always red, but redder than normal, as if he was hung over, or maybe had been crying. The latter was more probable right now. "Oh no, did you and Bob get in on this?"  
  
"Bob got taken out back in Sydney, trapped by the mark of Typhon, and I'm beginning to think the timing isn't coincidence. How are you? Are you hurt? Where's everyone else?" She scanned the lobby for familiar faces - Angel, Wesley, Spike, Gunn - and saw no one. But she noticed that, up close, Lorne smelled very faintly of cordite.  
  
"They're not here. I … I couldn't take it anymore," he admitted, sounding as defeated as he looked. "I … I killed a man."  
  
"I've killed lots."  
  
"Yeah, sweet pea, but I'm not cut out for it. I'm a lover, not a fighter." He chuckled slightly, but it was very weak, forced. "I really don't know where the others are. Still fighting, I guess - Los Angeles is still here. Maybe they won. If anyone could, it would be Angel."  
  
"You hurt?" She was starting to think he was in shock. That cordite smell - had he been shot? He looked a little bruised, but he was not overtly bleeding.  
  
"No, not really. I found … I brought him here -" He nodded his head towards a gurney, where a figure laid completely covered by a bloodstained sheet. " - I know he's not a demon, but I thought if anyone could help him or bring him back, it would be them." He closed his eyes, and lowered his head, as if saying a silent prayer. "But they're too overloaded, and it was too late anyways. Somebody has to stay with him, though. He shouldn't be an anonymous corpse, thrown in the incinerator."  
  
"What?" She turned and walked over to the gurney, noting the large red splotch of blood at abdominal level. Gut shot? She then pulled back the top of the sheet, and looked down into the face of a familiar man, now a familiar corpse. 


	4. Part 4

It was the bloodied, pale face of Wesley, canted slightly to the right. His skin was ashen, so dead the blood was already pooling in his major cavities, making the stubble on his face extra black, the blood on his face extra red, so slack in death he looked years younger than he actually must have been. She lifted the sheet further, and saw that he had indeed taken a fatal blow to the gut - stabbed, not shot, and by the look of the wound, someone twisted the blade to make sure it was a mortal wound. Obviously it had been.  
  
She had never really thought much about Wesley. He seemed to be an okay guy - for an ex-Watcher - and he certainly was gifted with the whole "magical arts" thing, and he'd been a plucky Human, as Humans went. But she never really thought much about him. So why did she feel a sudden lump in her throat?  
  
"Who?" She asked quietly, covering him up once more. Only then did she notice a slight glimmer on his palm, a circle of flesh that wasn't quite burnt, but pinker than the rest in his palm. He had died using magik - she wondered if it had been enough to kill his killer. "Who did this? Is it dead?"  
  
"I'd hope so. I don't know many sorcerers who can live without a head."  
  
She almost asked Lorne if that was the man he had killed, but didn't. It wouldn't matter anyways, and besides, she didn't think Lorne would feel too bad about blowing the head off of Wes's murderer. Maybe Wes had made it explode, his last act on Earth. "Good. I hope it hurt like fuck."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I hope so too." He sniffed, and she turned back to face him, sure her composure was intact.  
  
Lorne looked okay too, just sad. No, not sad - totally, utterly beaten. When he stood up, he still seemed half finished rising; his shoulders were slumped, his head was down, he looked several inches shorter than he actually was. "I'm sorry to bother you, green jeans, but I have a teleport out of town that I have to catch. Can you make sure he isn't …"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'll make sure he gets home."  
  
"Thank you. If I never see this city again, it will be too soon." He wiped the remaining tears from his eyes, and hugged her, which was a surprise, but she supposed he needed it right now. She hugged him back, and still smelled cordite on him. She would always wonder who the hell he shot, and why. "How's Bob? Bob good?"  
  
She decided to lie. He seemed to need some hope right now. "Bob's good."  
  
"Well, you tell that hunky Aussie god of yours to save everyone he can, and take care of himself, okay?"  
  
"Will do." She held him at arm's length, and gave him a small, forced smile. "Do you think the others … are they dead?"  
  
Something dark flashed through his ruby red eyes, and it was probably answer enough. "Angel seemed to think it was a suicide mission. I think, from looking around here, he was probably right."  
  
She nodded, and tried to grasp the fact that Angel most likely wouldn't be causing trouble at The Way Station anymore. As much as he annoyed the shit out of her, it was a truly odd thought - as odd as seeing the unflappable and yet constant Wesley dead on a slab. Hell had come, and hell had left, leaving only bodies to tell the tale. "Take care of yourself, Lorne. Send a postcard."  
  
"I'll try." He kissed her on the cheek, and turned to go, his shoulders still rounded, head still down. Even his loud suit was not enough; he looked dimmed, diminished, like it wasn't just his friends who had died, but every single dream he had ever had. It was a possibility, which made it all the more sad. If someone as naturally ebullient as Lorne could be dragged down into the abyss, what hope was there for the rest of them?   
  
Oh shit, what kind of nightmare was this? Bob was crippled; Wesley was dead; every other person on Angel's team was missing and presumed dead; and demon chaos ruled in the streets. Great - bloody fucking great.   
  
How much of this could she pin on Bob's fucking ex?  
  
She caught the arm of an orderly passing by, and pointed at the gurney where's Wesley's body laid nestled under the bloody sheet. "This is a relative of Maximum Bob's. He is family of Bob's. Do you understand?"  
  
The orderly, a one eyed Sklar demon, stiffened in shock, his rust red scales rippling as if disturbed by a soft breeze. "Maximum Bob? You mean "The" Bob?"  
  
"Yes, and I don't want him drained to feed the vamps in the convalescent ward. Hear me?"  
  
He nodded, sufficiently cowed, looking at the bloody sheet as if about to genuflect. "I'll have the body consecrated and moved to the holding chamber."  
  
"You'd better."  
  
He grabbed the end of the gurney carefully, as if the edges might be sharp enough to cut, and asked hesitantly, "What name do I put on the tag … er, chart?"  
  
"Wesley Wyndham-Price. Species Human - mostly." She had to add that, or they'd never believe he was related to Bob, and that was the only way she could guarantee his body wouldn't end up someone's demon chow.  
  
The demon nodded, quietly repeating the name to himself so he wouldn't forget it, and went off with the gurney towards the basement holding area.   
  
Now that she was standing all alone in the lobby, she wondered what to do. Was there anything she could do that would matter now?  
  
It seemed like she had missed everything. There was nothing to do but the clean up. And there was nothing she hated more than cleaning up.  
  
7  
  
Marcus didn't want to eavesdrop on Logan's conversation with Tony, but curiosity was getting the best of him. He almost expected yelling, but there wasn't any - still, weren't these cabins sound proof? He could be killing him, and he'd never know. But considering how stoned he still was, killing was probably the last thing on his mind. He probably just had the munchies, and was barely paying attention to what Tony was saying while he ate every single packet of peanuts he could sniff out of the galley.  
  
Not that he knew anything about the munchies.  
  
Finally, after an interminable time (really about twenty minutes - but it seemed longer), he heard the cabin door opening, and quickly threw himself in the nearest chair, picking up the paperback he had been pretending to read earlier.   
  
Logan walked out, still slightly unsteady on his feet … munching on bits from a small potato chip bag. How did he know? "How much did you hear?" Logan asked, still crunching, as he sat down. He managed not to fall down, which indicated he was recovering even more.   
  
"Nothin'. Place is soundproofed. You didn't kill him, did you?"  
  
He shook his head, still eating chips. "He really didn't tell me anything I hadn't already figured out for myself. And those pics in the parking garage are the same ones Bob showed me."  
  
"You ain't angry?"  
  
He shrugged. "He shoulda been honest with me, but naw, I'm not mad. God, these chips are terrible. How can people eat these things?" He tipped the small foil bag into his mouth, so he got all the crumbs, then crumpled the small foil bag into a ball, and shoved it in the crevice between the chair's arm and cushion before wiping his slightly greasy hands on his thighs. "Those were awful. Think there's anything more to eat around here?"  
  
"You're a very complicated man."  
  
"No, I'm a very hungry man."  
  
"You'd even eat sushi."  
  
"Hey, I like sushi."  
  
"You would," Marcus sighed, standing up. "C'mon, the galley's this way." What a weird day this had been. Or night. Whatever the fuck it was. But he knew, if they had any sense at all, they should be worrying about the Yakuza.  
  
The next few moves were bound to be doozies.  
  


* * *

Marc nuked him a shelf stable vegetarian pad thai entrée, and it was as appetizing as it sounded, but he was so hungry he wolfed it down anyways.   
  
He was sobering up, though, so that was a plus. If anodyne could do this to him, for hours, what would it do to normal people? It was a frightening thought, and it felt like a clue, but he was still too drugged to properly pursue it right now. But it was clear that people who took anodyne wouldn't know what they were getting into until the stuff had already subsumed them. At least, as evil plots went, he could see this one actually working without too much fuss. But what was the end goal? Helpless people? In the face of most demons, people were helpless anyways.  
  
Tony tapped on the door before entering the small "galley", where he sat at a table finishing off his pad thai bowl, and Marc leaned against the far counter, guzzling tiny bottles of vodka. Tony held up the phone, and said, "Logan, it's for you. Helga?"  
  
He nodded and stood up - at the same time! And he didn't fall over! The drugs were pretty much done with him now, and he was grateful. "Thanks." As soon as he took the phone from him, Tony disappeared, and he figured he was still ashamed. He didn't know why; he really didn't really blame him. But if he wanted to get consumed by guilt, he wasn't going to stop him.  
  
"Hey Hel," he said, as the connection crackled slightly. He had enough of his senses back to know the plane was in slow descent - they'd be landing soon. Then he wondered what he was going to do. Going after the Yakuza seemed like the sensible thing to do, but he wasn't sure he felt like being sensible. "How's Bob?"  
  
"No change," she sighed. She sounded tired. "They're not sure they can help him at all - the magik's too strong."  
  
"Shit. Have you hit Bob's address book? Could Amaranth help?"  
  
"I'm going to look into that, as soon as I have a moment to think."  
  
"What about Wes? He's good with that magic shit."  
  
She sighed heavily, a slight scoff, followed by a small, "Oh man."  
  
That set off all kinds of alarm bells. "What?"  
  
There was a brief pause before she answered. "He's dead, Logan."  
  
He felt like his legs had been kicked out from under him, and he sat down heavily, sure he hadn't heard her right. "What? Who's dead?" He saw Marc's head snap around towards him out of the corner of his eye, felt his intense stare.  
  
"Wesley. His body was here, Lorne brought it in. He got stabbed by some evil fuck, but he was D.O.A. - they could do as much for him as they could do for Bob."  
  
Logan felt a creeping cold rage, slowly overtaking the dregs of the drugs, and he lost the ability to speak for a moment. When he found his voice again, he managed to spit out, "Who did it? Give me a name."  
  
"Doesn't matter, big guy - he's already dead. Lorne said he lost his head, literally."  
  
Although that was satisfying, it didn't make him feel any better. "What's Angel doing about this?"  
  
"I have no idea. He's missing."  
  
Logan felt like he had slept through the second reel of a film, and was now coming to while the third reel played. "What? Helga, what the fuck's going on?"  
  
"From what I've been able to piece together, Angel and everyone else - Spike, Gunn, whatever the hell Fred is now - is missing. They were last seen fighting a whole bunch of evil minions a couple of blocks away from the Hyperion, but since then, no one's seen them."  
  
"Fuck." Marc had now come over to the table, and was looking down at him expectantly. He held up a hand to let him know he knew he was there, but he was still going to have to wait for it.   
  
"Maybe it's because I've been up for the last twenty six hours, but I can't help but feel paranoid," she said, and he heard her voice start to fracture, along with her composure. "This was all planned. They took out Bob, they took out Angel … who's next?"  
  
"Who's they exactly?"  
  
"Fuck if I know. But something bad is going to happen - I mean, something worse. Watch your back."  
  
"I'm okay. But how are you?"  
  
"Me?" She laughed humorlessly. "Oh, I'm fuckin' peachy, Logan." It sounded like she swallowed a cough, but then she couldn't quite hold back anymore, and started crying. "Oh fuck. I am not a crier, damn it!"  
  
"I know," he reassured her, closing his eyes and feeling bad for her. "It's okay."  
  
"It's not okay! Nothing is. It's all bullshit." She kept trying to stop crying, and couldn't quite do it.   
  
"Should I come down? I'll come."  
  
"No, no, I don't …" She paused to sniff, and then said, "Yeah, okay, could you come? Safety in numbers, right?"  
  
"We're gonna be okay, Hel, I promise you," he swore, aware that it could be a very empty promise. Who was strong enough to kill Wesley and take out Angel, not to mention Bob? This had to be some big league, heavy duty shit.  
  
"No, I'll be fine," she sniffed. "If I'm right, you won't be. They'll have to kill you before they can finish Bob off. If he dies before you do, his power will be transferred to you, like what happened with Camaxtli and Jean. You're the vessel, and if they want to guarantee Bob won't be a threat on this plane for some time, you have to die."  
  
"What did I say about calling me a vessel?" He sighed, rubbing his eyes. But she had a good, valid point, and he knew it. If this was part of some overwhelming, big evil scheme, and they wanted to make a clean sweep of this, he would have to be next. He wasn't a particular force for "good" - in fact, he was honestly kind of bad - but he was Bob's avatar, so that dragged him kicking and screaming into this bloody mess. "Besides, whoever they are, they'll have to get in line. I think the Yakuza have first dibs on me."  
  
"You think the Yakuza will even make them blink?"  
  
Okay, she had another point. Hel was just scoring all over the place tonight. "No. But then again, they're hardly making me blink either."  
  
"Get here as soon as you can. And for fuck's sake, be careful."  
  
"I will. Just … hang in there." It was a stupid thing to say, but what else was there to say? Luckily, the static got so heavy on the phone he was forced to hang up before the signal was lost.  
  
Marc sat on the corner of the table, and asked, "How fucking bad is this? Who's dead?"  
  
"Wes," he sighed. "And Angel's missing."  
  
He exhaled as if punched. "You gotta be shitting me."  
  
"I'm not, and Hel seems to think it might be some kind of plot - and she may be right." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Wesley dead? For some reason, he couldn't believe it - it just wasn't sinking in. He'd gotten the shit smacked out of him by a thousand nasty things and survived, how could he be dead?  
  
"Want me to come with you?" He offered. "We'll go kick some demon ass."  
  
Logan glanced up at him and smiled faintly. He knew he meant it , and he might have to take him up on it, but right now, if Hel's theory was right, he was a walking target, and anybody with him was likely to get caught in the crossfire. He couldn't risk that. "Thanks, but I think Tony still needs some protecting, and besides, I'm not sure Hel would welcome too much company at the moment."  
  
"Bob's still out?"  
  
"Yeah, and she sounds exhausted."  
  
Marc raised an eyebrow at that, and Logan knew he was thinking that Helga had called him in a "boyfriend" capacity. Not true, but if he wanted to think that, fine, it would make it easier to strike out on his own. "Yeah, okay. But you guys give me a call if you need back up."  
  
He nodded, and stared at his hands, noticing there was still a little blood beneath his fingernails. He felt useless, and he was tired of feeling fucking useless.   
  
"You think Angel actually got his fool ass dusted?"  
  
"Anything's possible. But I don't think I'll believe it until I see it. How old was he? Two hundred something? Nearly three hundred? You'd think he'd be smarter than that by now."  
  
"Yeah, well, no matter how old we are, we all have our grand moments of stupidity."  
  
"True." And Logan felt he was a master of that particular art.  
  
Which was why he now feared Wesley wasn't the only one who was dead, just the only one who could be confirmed killed, the only body left behind.  
  
8  
  
Tony must have still felt guilty about lying to him, because as soon as he overheard that he needed to get to Los Angeles as quickly as possible, he used his influence and money to get him a private jet flight out of Canada, minutes after they put down at Burnaby.  
  
The strip at Burnaby was so small it looked like it had been deserted for a while, so it was really an ideal spot. He bet there were some frustrated Yakuza waiting for them to land in Vancouver, wondering what was taking them so fucking long.  
  
The only other plane available was a tiny Cessna, a puddle jumper that could barely seat ten people, but as soon as Tony waved a little cash in the bored pilot's face, Logan was on his way to L.A. through the accommodating if not precisely friendly skies.  
  
He felt stone cold sober now, and kind of wished he didn't. He also wished this was just a nightmare and he was going to wake up screaming and shredding his pillow any second now … but wasn't this bound to happen? He knew how powerful and evil things could be - he still couldn't forget the leering, bloodthirsty gaze of Camaxtli, as dead though he was now, and the overwhelming, crippling power of his aura, like he could shred planets with a single wave of his fingers - and he knew sometimes you just hit a wall. Sometimes you just came up against something so much stronger than you it wasn't even funny. He knew from experience that there was always someone stronger than you, faster, meaner, smarter, better - but when it came to gods and demons, the playing field could alter in different ways entirely. Stronger, faster, meaner didn't even come into it - they were the elephant, and you were the ant, a life form so meaningless and insignificant, you never even showed up on their radar. They'd simply kill you on their way to something more meaningful; it was your fault you got in their way and got crushed, and they wouldn't give you a first thought, never mind a second.  
  
The pilot landed the plane at a small airfield outside of Los Angeles, closer to Santa Monica, which was fine with him. He had no problem getting into L.A. proper, and even though he knew he should go straight to the hospital Hel told him about, he wasn't ready to do that just yet. There was something else he needed to check out first.  
  
The sun was just starting its slow climb up from the horizon, but it wouldn't be a proper sunrise for an hour now: the sky was a deep contusion blue, the street lights (where they existed) still on, and he made sure the cab dropped him off several blocks from the old Hyperion hotel, so he could do a reconnaissance on foot.   
  
The funny thing was, he smelled it and felt it exactly at the same time. It had rained heavily before, judging from the puddles of dirty water gathering in potholes and sidewalk cracks, although now it had cleared off. It should have left a clean smell in its wake, but it didn't; there was a thick, rank scent in the air, of blood and corrupted flesh, sulfur and that smell of fresh entrails spilled, like a butcher shop. But, in this case, a butcher shop in a sewer, where body parts of about two dozen unnatural, rotting things were flushed straight down the toilet. And while the rank smell made him instinctively cringe, a sense of evil so potent and heavy made his skin crawl like it was trying to rip itself off his body and slink away. Every instinct he had was telling him to go, to flee in the opposite direction, but he forged ahead, ignoring the screaming instinct in his mind. It wasn't the first time.  
  
Traffic was non-existent here, which qualified as a supernatural event in itself for Los Angeles. But it wasn't until he reached the top of the block, where the old Hyperion hotel stood as a monument to crumbling opulence, yesteryear's version of class reduced to a slowly moldering architectural corpse, that he saw the exact amount of damage done.  
  
No wonder Wesley had died. It was a wonder it hadn't been a wholesale, city wide massacre; it was a small miracle the city was still standing.  
  
Three buildings that had existed on the left hand side of the street the last time he was here were blasted ruins; it looked like their foundations were the only things not reduced to fractured beams and concrete and plaster dust. Broken glass glittered on the fissured, cracked street like crushed diamonds, and perhaps that could explain the lack of cars here … but he didn't think so. The death smell got worse the farther he walked on, but he was starting to get used to it. His skin was still trying to rip itself free, though.  
  
It was then that he felt the eyes.  
  
There was a noise like steam venting from a grate, a deep, smooth hiss, and a noise like dry leaves scraping against dry asphalt. But since there was no such thing as dried leaves in downtown L.A., he knew that couldn't be it. It also helped that a new hiss arose, and it made a noise that sounded very much like a pneumatic press whispering, "Hhhh-uuuu-mmm-aaa-nnn."  
  
Logan tried to place by sound as he continued walking down the broken street, letting his muscles get loose, yet tensing his hands, claws aching to spring free. This was exactly what he was looking for - well, one of them.  
  
When it came, it came fast and hard, and even Logan was not prepared for how big it was.  
  
It exploded out of an alley, shattering an entire wall of a neighboring building as it darted out towards him at fifty miles an hour. To Logan it was nothing but a fifteen foot high blurb, something as gray as decayed flesh that smelled even worse, with glowing yellow embers for eyes and knitting needle sized teeth. He barely had time to pop his claws and lash out as he tried to spin aside and cut it at the same time.  
  
It ripped a huge chunk of flesh off his thigh - he could feel the meat tear away in a moment that was so painful it actually seemed to overload his nerves, and therefore didn't feel like much of anything at all for one wonderful second - but Logan felt his own claws dig into steel hard, rhino thick hide, and he tore in himself, letting the thing's momentum drag his claws through its long, long body. (It was like a moray eel - a fifteen foot, dry land moray eel, with prehistoric piranha teeth and a jet engine for a propulsion system.) It screeched like Minnie Mouse on helium, and as Logan winced from the sudden pressure on his eardrums, he realized how all this glass had broken.  
  
It flicked its tail and sent him flying into the wrought iron fence that concealed the rear courtyard of the Hyperion. Logan felt himself hit it, and then felt the bars shatter under both his weight and velocity, and he landed so hard on the marble tiles of the interior plaza they cracked like glass, and shards drove themselves into his skin. But that was okay, because the pain was keeping him conscious.  
  
"You kill them, fucker?!" He shouted, spitting out a gob of blood (he bit the inside of his cheek when he hit the fence - how fucking embarrassing). "C'mon, make me a dessert, you super-sized dildo!"  
  
It most likely didn't understand English, but it came for him, a gray streak like a runaway freight train, and he ignored the pain and jumped to his feet before it hit, the pain in his leg where the thing had bit him making him scream. Since he could see nothing of it but its glowing, jaundiced eyes, he quickly focused on those, and as it screamed through the rest of the fence and lunged straight for him, he lunged right back - and rammed his claws deep into its eyes.  
  
Hot blood that smelled like landfill mud spurted up his arms, and it screamed and flailed, trying to throw him off, but Logan ignored how disgusting and painful this all was and used his upper body strength to thrust his claws in deeper, tearing through muscles that felt like steel cables, trapping his upper arms in the almost unbearable hot prison of its body.  
  
In its thrashing desperation to be rid of him, it rammed them both straight into the lobby of the Hyperion, sending wood and plaster flying, but Logan was barely clipped on the head - he was so deeply buried in this thing's head, he was almost a part of it now. And he kept digging for fucking China.  
  
Elbows deep, the thing finally went limp. It just stopped, like a car whose battery just suddenly died, and it was actually so slack that Logan actually fell off the thing, and hit his back and head on the remaining stairs in the Hyperion's lobby. Its own muscular contractions as it tried to fling him off were actually helping to keep him on the thing? How cruelly ironic. See, if it only had hands, it could have just plucked him off.   
  
Although he was hurting like hell, smelled worse than a McDonald's dumpster left for three weeks in the hot sands of the Sahara, he felt strangely elated. One fucker down.  
  
He limped outside, waiting for his healing factor to finish with his leg and counting on adrenaline to get him through until then, and looked around the supposedly deserted streets of this thoroughly trashed block. But they weren't deserted. He could smell them on the polluted wind, feel their eyes like pinpricks, and when he clamored clumsily over the broken fence and reached the center of the fissured street, he raised his arms over his head, and flicked the clotted, dark brains and dangling optic nerves of the demon eel thing off his claws. "Who else wants some?!" He roared angrily, aware this was probably one of those grand moments of stupidity Marc had mentioned, but he honestly didn't care. He was angry enough to slice up the whole world right now if he had to.  
  
Perhaps not surprisingly, volunteers were not immediately forthcoming. 


	5. Part 5

He started limping across the street, aware that that didn't do much for his macho image, but that eel/snake demon had ripped a melon sized hole in his leg, and it was taking some time for the muscle to heal itself. But at least it was healing; it felt like his left thigh was on fire. Adrenaline was speeding the process along, but he liked to think it was really rage doing the job.  
  
He decided the snake demon thing had given him a clue as to where to look, and he turned out to be right. The remains of the alley where the snake had been led directly to another one, wider, more intact, that was only partially slick with water - mostly, it was slippery with blood.  
  
Mostly demon blood, of a variety he had never smelled before. It looked like fuel oil, smelled like three month old cottage cheese, and while there were no bodies, there were body parts, bits of armor (?), and enough blood to keep an emergency room up and running for quite a while.  
  
The smell was so rank and overwhelming it was hard to separate the scents, unless he was standing over a specific splash of blood. That's how he knew he was on the right track, because he was able to discern Gunn's blood, spattered on a far wall near a broken piece of chain link fencing. There was demon blood here too, but not enough to overwhelm it. "Guys?" He said, loud enough that they might hear it - if they were still conscious or living. "Hey guys, it's Logan, 'm here to help." Picking his way carefully over the slicks of blood, lopped off demon arms, split helmets, and shredded scales, he picked up another scent: an Old One was here? A diluted Old One - the scent wasn't as powerful or rank as he remembered. A half-breed? Bad enough, he supposed. "If there's any help to be had," he muttered to himself.  
  
He kept following the alley, where the signs of destruction - holes in facades, broken asphalt, dumpsters crumpled like pop cans - eventually narrowed down. The blood never quite did, but he eventually caught the scent of Angel's blood.  
  
In fact, there was a small trail of it, like breadcrumbs, that he followed to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. In some rubble leading up to it, he found, impaled on a broken sword, a part of a leather jacket. It looked like a duster, but it seemed narrow across the shoulders (even though it was split down the middle), and Logan knew before he even smelled the blood that this was not Angel's, but Spike's. Still, blood was good, right? If a vampire bled, it meant they weren't dust - no vampire could bleed to death.  
  
Angel's blood continued into the warehouse, where its near wall had been completely obliterated, and inside, among the scattered armor and broken weapons was another snake demon. But even as Logan tensed for another hit, he knew he was wrong. First of all, this thing was more green than gray, and the smell of decaying flesh was almost stronger than the scent of blood. And there didn't seem to be a head on this thing, and it tapered down, which the eel demon hadn't. It was like ... it was like a sixteen foot long tail. Jesus Christ, what the hell had it been attached to - Godzilla?! No wonder he wasn't finding anyone.  
  
Although it was hard to tell through the general demon stink, he was pretty sure Gunn was dead. He had smelled far too much of his blood in too many places, and he was just a Human (well, as far as he knew) - he couldn't bleed forever. Angel and Spike could, though, which was probably a good thing, as they were both runners up in the blood loss sweepstakes. The Old One/Human thing was an also ran, but he didn't know if that was friend or foe - you'd think foe. And he knew from some experience that Old Ones could bleed a whole hell of a lot and hardly even notice.  
  
He heard movement, though, a rustle in the alley, and that's why he was prepared for the attack when it came.  
  
He couldn't say what they were - they were wearing head to toe chain mail armor, helmets shaped like old samurai ones, but with face coverings, and they were armed with huge broadswords over three feet in length. They also smelled like last week's dishwater. The initial attack was by three of them moving in concert, heavy blades slicing through the air with an audible noise, as if tearing the fabric of reality itself.  
  
He easily ducked the sword that tried to decapitate him, and kicked one of the Three Stooges in the gut, sending him stumbling back into the rubble, as he slashed up to meet a second sword, and his claw cut it in half. But it was a near thing; there was great resistance, as if the thing was adamantium plated, or perhaps just made of a metal nearly as strong.   
  
He saw the sword of the third slashing downwards out of the corner of his eye, going for his injured leg, so he swung around completely, using his left hand claws to cut the fucker's head completely in half. The sword dropped to the ground before it could hit his leg, but even with the top of his head missing, the thing remained wavering slightly on its feet.  
  
The one with the broken sword lunged at him with it, but Logan spun aside, drove a claw into its throat, and ripped to one side, slicing his head clean off. This time the body fell away quickly, at the same time as its head.   
  
The last one stand slashed its sword quickly and violently, and Logan lurched back barely in time, as it cut through the air so close to his face he would swear he could feel the tip of the sword brush his cheek. Not enough to cut, but enough for him to feel the unnaturally icy chill that seemed to emanate from it; it traveled through his body like a bolt of occult lightening, and he shivered, his balls shriveling up and his lungs contracting from the frigid shock. What the fuck was up with that?!  
  
He decided he really didn't want to find out. The last demon came in slashing its sword from side to side, tossing it from one chain mailed hand to another with lightning speed, the blade reduced to a flashing blur. Still, Logan wasn't impressed or concerned; he simply waited for a toss, and kicked the haft of the sword, sending it shooting straight up, and as soon as the demon lurched up to grab it, Logan rammed a claw into his chest and yanked violently through the thick, muscular torso, nearly cutting it in half.  
  
Logan then jumped back so the sword hit the floor, as there was no fucking way he was going to touch it. But he was content knowing that, if he really wanted to, he could have caught the sword.  
  
He stepped over the bodies - and weird cold swords - and headed for the front of the warehouse; he'd seen all there was to see here, and if anyone was still here, he'd know.  
  
He'd gotten ten steps away when he heard the noise.  
  
It was an odd squelching noise, like someone tramping through knee high muck in galoshes, and he glanced over his shoulder warily, afraid of what he might see.  
  
Oh yeah, that was bad. Tendrils of pinkish-gray flesh extended from the demon body parts he had cut off, and extended to the bodies they had been excised from; they meshed, entwined like vines in a time lapsed film, tendrils reaching into bloody openings and pulling themselves back towards their native bodies.  
  
The demons were putting themselves back together again.  
  
"Okay, that's new," he muttered, and heard a noise near the front of the warehouse. Looking around, he saw two more chain mail demons (Shemp and Curly Joe?) had come to join the party. Great. "So whatta I gotta do to keep you fucks down?" He asked, aware he wouldn't be getting an answer. "Burn you up? Shred you like coleslaw? Force feed you Twinkies?"  
  
It was then that one of the pair of chain mail demons had his head grabbed from behind, and twisted so violently to one side that the crack of its neck was as loud as a rifle shot. And before its twin could react, one of the demon's thick broadswords was rammed through its stomach and pulled straight up, out through the top of its head, completely bisecting it above the waist.  
  
For a single moment, Logan thought that it was Angel and Spike making a timely appearance, but that moment died as soon as the bodies fell away, and he saw the diminutive silhouettes of what could only be the Weird Sisters standing there. The one with the sword tossed it to him, and it was reflex to catch it, but he did it haft first, and almost dropped it … except there was no cold biting into his hand. He could still feel it cascading down the blade, as if it were made of dry ice, but the handle wasn't made of the same material.  
  
"The-"  
  
"- sword's-"  
  
"- enchanted. It's -"  
  
"- the only -"  
  
"- way to kill -"  
  
" - them."  
  
"Ah. Thanks for the tip," he replied, turning around and chopping all three of the stooges, who were just starting to get up. None of them had pulled themselves together enough to grab up their own swords and fight, so they were easy targets.  
  
He heard the disturbing sound of something being driven into meat, a hard, wet noise, and he knew that they had used the other sword to kill the stooge with the broken neck. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. "So what the hell are these things?" He asked, turning back to face them. Maybe they weren't Angel, but he had to admit - if only to himself - that he was actually somewhat glad to see them. Although hard to trust and freaky as all hell, there was no pair better to have at your back, which they had just proven.   
  
"Heralds," one said. Logan was mildly surprised that that was all he got.  
  
"Heralds? How? Of what?" He considered that, tossing the sword away. "Like angels, only from the opposite end of the spectrum?"  
  
"Angels -"  
  
"- don't -"  
  
"- exist. Unless -"  
  
"- you count -"  
  
"- angel demons, but -"  
  
"- they're not very -"  
  
"- nice at all."  
  
Angel demons? Did he want to know? Again, no, probably not. "Ya know what I mean."  
  
"We -"  
  
"- do -"  
  
"- and that's - "  
  
"- close enough."  
  
Even though it was now patently obvious, he gestured to their blood smeared surroundings, and said, "So you missed the big party too, huh?"  
  
"We -"  
  
"- were -"  
  
"- in Portland -"  
  
"- we just -"  
  
"- got back and -"  
  
"- discovered Angel had -"  
  
"- left us a message."  
  
"He said we should -"  
  
"- be ready, and do the -"  
  
"- right thing."  
  
He waited for more, but that was apparently it. "That's all? What was that supposed to mean?" Leave it to Angel not to say something simple like : "We're outnumbered a hundred to one by all of Monster Island. You girls busy tonight?"  
  
They both smiled faintly, with wry knowledge, and even though it was an essentially benign expression, they made it creepy simply by doing it in stereo, their odd eyes glittering in the extremely dim, pre-dawn half light. "He -"  
  
"- expected -"  
  
"- to die -"  
  
"- and before -"  
  
"- he killed all -"  
  
"- his enemies. He -"  
  
"- wanted us to beat -"  
  
"- back Hell if he -"  
  
"- failed. What does he think -"  
  
"- we are? Good guys?"  
  
"No, he thought you were an unstoppable killing machine, perverse enough not to want to join the home team." Of course that was just a guess, but it felt right.  
  
And he must have been, because their anemic smirks became full blown grins, a truly creepy sight, especially when the corners of their mouths moved up in perfect synchronicity. "You -"  
  
"- know -"  
  
"- us so -"  
  
" - well, Logan."  
  
That bothered him. He'd been in on this weird shit for too damn long.  
  
The Sisters looked a bit different than the last time he'd seen them; they hair, usually a long plait hanging down to the center of their back, was now shoulder length and framing their eternally youthful and deceptively innocent young faces, making them look more like jailbait than ever before. But their lips remained gorged with blood, even when not in vamp face, and they still had a questionable sense of fashion - they both wore black vinyl jackets, purple paisley patterned velvet shirts, black pin striped pants, and platform soled red sneakers that were so clean they almost glowed in the dark. The one good thing about the Sisters? He always felt impeccably dressed compared to them, even when covered in demon blood.  
  
He followed them out into the ruins of the alley, retracting his claws, only limping a little bit now. "Maybe he died, but he musta won, 'cause somehow I think Hell would be a lot more than five guys and Anaconda."  
  
"Angel's -"  
  
"- not -"  
  
"- dead."  
  
They sounded so certain it actually made him stop, almost stunned by the sudden sense of hope. "He's not? Do you know where he is?"  
  
"No -"  
  
"- we -"  
  
"- just know-"  
  
"- he's not -"  
  
"- dead."  
  
Now he wasn't sure if they were jerking his chain or not. "And how do you know that, exactly?"  
  
"We'd -"  
  
"- feel -"  
  
"- it if-"  
  
"- he died -"  
  
"- he was our -"  
  
"- sire and grandsire."  
  
It was something he wanted to believe, but how could he? It didn't sound right. "Do all vamps feel when their "sire" dies?"  
  
"No -"  
  
"- but -"  
  
"- we're not -"  
  
"- your typical -"  
  
"- vampires."  
  
They had him there.  
  
Even though the sun was coming up in increments, they insisted on staying with him until he reached the demon hospital, and he figured it was out of the desire to get in a good fight more than any actual concern for him, as … well, did they give a damn about anything? Well, maybe Bob; they seemed to love Bob. Oh shit, did they know about Bob?  
  
The funny thing was, all the feeling of eyes upon him died as soon as he came out of the alley with the Sisters. In fact, he'd never had less of a sense of being watched in his life. Were other demons that genuinely scared of the Sisters? Come to think of it, maybe - maybe that's why Angel actually called them: as soon as the denizens of Hell saw the Sisters waiting for them, they might retreat and just decide to come back on a better day. It was a funny thought at least.   
  
Or maybe the Sisters stayed with him because they felt it too - an odd, inexplicable shift of psychic equilibrium, a feeling that something inexpressible was wrong, that something had violently changed, but whether it was for bad or for good was unknown. The world had just tipped suddenly sideways, and they were among the few that knew it, so they simply clung together, waiting to see if they would be among the survivors of the final, ending shift.  
  
Or maybe the anodyne hadn't really warn off completely yet.  
  
He was fully healed up by the time they reached the hospital, but he had now had the weirdest pair of jeans on Earth (almost his whole left thigh, with its new, pink flesh, was exposed), and still smelled like molding bong water, thanks to that damn snake demon thing. The sky had lightened to violet, but the sun was still safely ensconced behind the horizon, so the Sisters were in no immediate danger of flaming on. At the entrance, since it was obvious they weren't coming in with him, he wondered if he should tell them about Bob. "Uh, d'ya know -" he began, but they didn't let him finish.  
  
"When -"  
  
"- you -"  
  
"- find out -"  
  
"- who hurt -"  
  
"- our Bob, we -"  
  
"- want in. We -"  
  
"- want to make them -"  
  
"- suffer. And we're sorry -"  
  
"- about Wesley. He was cute -"  
  
" - for a Watcher, and he -"  
  
"- was afraid of us. We like -"  
  
"- that in a man."  
  
Logan shook his head, and almost - but not quite - smiled. It seemed far too soon for jokes (if that was actually a joke - maybe it wasn't), but it was an almost welcome surprise, especially coming from the terror twins here. "Yer a coupla weirdoes," he accused half-heartedly, even though it couldn't have been more true.  
  
Their only response was to smile and salute in unison, which was quite possibly their creepiest choice of response ever. He was so very glad they were - well, in a technical sense - on their side.  
  
Once inside, he was almost knocked down by the scent of so much contrasting demon blood, but it still wasn't as bad as what he smelled in that alley. He found a Persaid demon in medical greens, and asked her where he   
  
could find Bob's room. She looked slightly startled - like she didn't know Bob was here, or was surprised a Human was? - but after consulting a chart, pointed him towards the "intensive" ward. He passed bloody demos on gurneys lining the hall; most of them were dead, or would be soon. A passing nurse who looked Human but smelled demon asked if he needed assistance, staring at the hole in his jeans and the blood that had run down his leg before it had healed. He told him he was just visiting, and moved on.  
  
Going past a private waiting room, he thought he heard canned music, but it made him pause in shock. In a normal hospital, you might get Muzak in the elevators; in this one, Slipknot's "Wait and Bleed" was raging quietly in the restricted access lobby. Demons could have the weirdest sense of humor.  
  
Bob's room was restricted access as well, but he must have passed muster, as the door hissed open for him, retracting inside itself like a "Star Trek" door. Pretty cool.  
  
What he saw inside wasn't. Bob was laying in a pale blue hospital bed, surrounded by machines that he was connected to by electrodes and hair thin wires. His bare chest was exposed by pulled back sheets, revealing a huge, weird black symbol branded on his chest, burned into several layers of skin. The mark of Typhon, he presumed.  
  
"Logan," Helga said, immediately coming up and embracing him. He hugged her back tightly, and wished he could think of something profound or comforting to say, but he couldn't, so he didn't say anything at all.  
  
They held the embrace for an entire minute, and then Helga held him back slightly, small green nose wrinkled. "Haven't you been rolling in filth? Demon trouble?"  
  
"I went to check out the Hyperion, and ran into a pissed off Kaa from the Jungle Book. I also met a few Heralds."  
  
She looked surprised. "No shit? Fuck, you shoulda called me."  
  
"It was okay. After I got rid of Kaa, the Sisters showed up."  
  
"Oh good, they're still around?" She then paused, briefly taken aback. "I can't believe I'm happy that the Sisters are around."  
  
"I know how you feel. Now we know the world's fucked up." He cupped her face in his right hand, belatedly realizing there was still blackish demon blood on it. Oh well, at least it was dried. "You look exhausted. Why don't I get you home?"  
  
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, obviously tired but not quite ready to go. "I shouldn't. I should stay here and -"  
  
"And what? We're gonna have to go out and play bounty hunters - there's nothing we can do for him sitting around here like premature mourners."  
  
She sighed heavily, sadly, and let her chin drop to her chest. "I know. It's just so fucking shitty."  
  
"Oh yeah."  
  
She then looked up, her eyes suddenly bright with hope. "Wait a sec. You still have some of Bob's energy in you, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah … why?"  
  
"Maybe … I don't know, maybe he can pull it out of you, or maybe it will be a shock to his system. Or, at the very least, maybe you can communicate with him."  
  
She was grasping at straws and they both knew it, but what if there was a chance, no matter how slim, that that could work? "Well … what do I gotta do?"  
  
"Umm …" She broke away from him, but grabbed his hand and led him to Bob's bedside. "Can you control the energy?"  
  
"I have no fucking idea."  
  
"Well, try. And grab his hand - I think physical contact is necessary if this is going to work."  
  
He sighed, wary but game for (almost) anything. She let go of him and stepped back, so Logan had room. Why? Did she think he was going to jolt backwards as if struck by lightning, maybe explode the machinery? (Oh, he had to think of that now, didn't he?) "Okay, Bob, if you're in there somewhere, you're gonna have to help me figure this out," he said, wiping the demon blood off on the intact leg of his jeans.  
  
With some reluctance, he braced himself, and grabbed Bob's cold, still hand. 


	6. Part 6

Logan was tensed and ready for one of those heavy shocks, like that psychic lightning bolt that seemed to sizzle through him whenever Bob used his touch telepathy, so when nothing happened, it was almost a let down.   
  
He thought it was him, so he grabbed Bob's hand tighter and focused on blue, all that blue energy hiding in the crevices of his brain … and still nothing. He might as well be holding a doll's hand. Or a corpse.  
  
He opened his eyes with a frustrated sigh, and Helga said, "Nothing?"  
  
"Nothing. I'm not feeling a single bit of power from him."  
  
"Well, Keelin said the mark held it in; maybe it does that even with contact."  
  
"Shit. We're gonna have to hunt this bitch down, aren't we?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And fight a god? By ourselves?"  
  
"That's where the plan falls apart," she admitted. He turned to her as she grimaced at the floor, torn between anger and sorrow. "Ya know, I don't know how I'm going to use Bob's connections. Gods routinely ignore us …"  
  
He took her in his arms because it looked like she needed it, and she sagged against him, as if so tired she might collapse. "We'll make 'em pay attention to us. We're good at that."  
  
"Yeah," she agreed, although she sounded uncertain.   
  
"C'mon, I'll get you home."  
  
She nodded, but didn't pull away, and he didn't make her. Man, when things went wrong, they went wrong all the way, didn't they?   
  
He couldn't wait to find out what new shit was sure to hit them.  
  
9  
  
He knew Rogue was waiting outside when he came out of the hospital, but he was still a little disappointed to find her there.   
  
Piotr was upset enough. He had asked him several times, after they arrived on the scene, why anybody would do such a thing, and why Saddiq hadn't called for help. But Xavier knew.  
  
When they returned to the mansion, just ahead of the ambulance, Saddiq had lost a lot of blood - far too much - and was in and out of consciousness. But Xavier caught a flash of his emotions during a brief period of consciousness, and Saddiq felt pleased, almost triumphant. He did just what he was he was supposed to do, what he was made to do - he defended the castle, he fought back an invader, he won. That's what mattered the most to him.  
  
It didn't matter what they had tried to teach Saddiq since he'd been here; it was a problem with all the Rajan kids, but especially him, since he was the oldest of them. He was not taught anything but the fact that his use as a tool - as a weapon - was all he could achieve in life, and it was the greatest achievement possible. It seems the Rajan patriarchy had figured out what Stryker and his Organization (thankfully) could not: if you want a mutant weapon, you don't brainwash them, you don't enhance their construction - you make them from birth, and groom them from there. If they know no other life, they have no idea escape is even an option. And no matter how hard they had worked with him, they had still not overcome his lifetime of programming.   
  
(Then again, that was true of Logan too, wasn't it?)  
  
And even though that was discouraging, a part of him - a very small, miniscule part - was glad he had not lost his instinct; he was glad that Saddiq had intercepted this man before he could cause more damage or, god forbid, kill any of the children. The only problem was Saddiq might have just gotten himself killed in the process, and how was that a positive outcome?  
  
Rogue stared at them hollow eyed, her clothes still smeared with blood, twisting her gloved hands anxiously. She had insisted on coming, as she was apparently the first to find Scott and Saddiq, but he requested she stay in the car, especially since none of them would be allowed in the emergency room anyways. Once she realized how bloody she was, she agreed. "How is he - they? Are they ..?"  
  
"Scott will be fine," he assured her, and that was the good news. It seemed that, in spite of the puncture wound in the back of his neck, he wasn't stabbed - he was electrocuted. Not a lethal charge, but sent directly into the spinal column. Even when he regained consciousness, it might be an hour before he regained full use of his limbs. Whatever new kind of weapon that was, it was far more effective and devastating than a standard "paralyzer" could ever be.   
  
"What about Saddiq?" She asked, looking up at Piotr behind him, aware that he would be the first to "crack", as it were.  
  
"They're attempting to stabilize him now," he told her, trying to sound more upbeat than he actually felt. The medical team was working from a deficit - they had to reach into the stab wounds and try and seal the damage from that limited vantage point, as they had no instruments that could cut his skin; they all broke, scalpels snapping like icicles. They didn't have adamantium, like his assailant obviously did.   
  
Just the way Rogue stared at him, he knew she had guessed that Saddiq was all but a lost cause. Although her eyes were starting to well with tears, they took on a defiant, angry look. "We have to get that bastard, the guy who did this, if he is still alive."  
  
"We will find this man," he insisted, still not sure if it was a lie or not. They did need to find him before he could do any more damage to them or any other mutant. But if they did find him, what then?  
  
She didn't seem that convinced. She took off her bloody gloves, letting them hit the asphalt with a wet thwack, and ran her hands through her hair, trying to hide the fact that she was wiping the tears out of her eyes. "What was that stuff in his blood?" She asked, turning away.   
  
Xavier could not initially believe the amount of blood in the front corridor; it looked like a slaughterhouse. It pooled on the floor, dripped from the walls, spattered broken furniture and made a trail leading down the front drive. It must have been a brutal battle, for all of its brevity, and the man must have been extraordinary if he could take such a beating from Saddiq and still be able to run away. In fact, from the limited evidence available, it was Saddiq who had dished out most of the punishment, although the intruder still managed to land possibly fatal blows.   
  
And it was the intruder's blood that especially repulsed and horrified. It looked just like normal human blood … except things moved and sparkled in it, photons caught in aimless loops of Brownian motion, not quite visible with the naked eye save for when they gave out minute electrical discharges, microscopic lightning bolts. If he was some adamantium enhanced mutant, like Wolverine, he wasn't a type anyone had ever seen before. Maybe it was part of a new adamantium bonding process, proving the concept hadn't quite died with Alkali Lake like it should have. "It's still being tested. We should know soon enough."  
  
When Piotr started moving his chair across the parking lot, Rogue stepped in their path, making him stop. She had managed to get the crying under control, but tears still sparkled in her eyes, and her jaw was rigid with anger. "We have to find Logan."  
  
"Rogue -"  
  
"He can find him. He can take care of him."  
  
What a chilling choice of phrase. "As we can."  
  
"Not the same way."  
  
"Rogue -"  
  
"He attacked us in our own home!" She insisted angrily. "He ki .. He tried to kill Saddiq! He had an adamantium knife, right? He's probably one of those Organization assholes -"  
  
"Rogue, trust me. We will handle this." She obviously didn't know that the intruder had done something to Cerebro; they would have a difficult time finding Logan as it was. He'd already tried to call his cell phone number - to warn him - but it wasn't working.  
  
Not that he was eager to. It was clear that was why he came to the mansion, to sabotage Cerebro and harm Logan - actually attempt to kill him? Xavier wondered how adamantium conducted electricity, and if an electrical current applied directly to the spinal column would affect Logan the same way it affected Scott, or possibly worse. Or maybe the man would let Logan simply have everything he had, electricity wise.  
  
The thing was, before Saddiq was put into the ambulance, the boy had stared at him in a meaningful way; even half-conscious, it was almost angry. That confused Xavier until he opened his mind, just a bit, enough to see that Saddiq wanted him to read his mind.  
  
And then Xavier saw everything. The fight from Saddiq's viewpoint, heard what little he'd been able to get from the intruder, who was clearly terrified of him; an intruder who did not have an adamantium knife, but a hand that could shift shape and densities. A hand that glimmered like his eyes, and like the motes that swarmed in his blood.  
  
He had seen his face; he had seen his fear. He knew this man, and would be able to identify him anywhere. He also knew that Saddiq had cut an artery, had delivered a blow that should have been fatal, in one way or another - either he would bleed to death, or Logan would track him down by scent and kill him. That was not something Xavier wanted, as it seemed to fall right into their plans … whatever they ultimately were. Nor, if Saddiq survived, did he want him to live with the fact that he was a killer, no matter if the cause was "just" or not.  
  
The morning sun was beating down on them like a punishment, it would be a miserably hot New York day, and the smell of blood lingered like horrific memory. Xavier knew Rogue was becoming almost belligerent with her anger, seething, and would probably try something stupid if she wasn't stopped. But he would stop her by any means necessary, if he absolutely had to.  
  
Because the only one who was going to be doing something stupid around here was him.  
  
10  
  
In retrospect, it was as funny as hell that he was paranoid.  
  
Hel was absolutely right - it was a god. They wouldn't lurk behind closed doors, wouldn't jump out at you from a dark alley; they didn't have to. They could pop in anywhere, eradicate every trace of your existence, and disappear before you even realized you were dead. It was a power level above and beyond anything they could muster. Bob may have made them both used to these displays of extreme power, but it was really something nothing mortal was supposed to be accustomed to; no one was supposed to be blasé about the ripping apart of dimensional fabric.  
  
They returned to Bob's loft apartment above the warehouse/garage in the industrial district, not bothered by gods or monsters. He wasn't expecting too much monster trouble, though, as the sun was finally up, a bloated orb turned a rusty orange by thin layer of pollution that hovered over the Los Angeles basin like a bad reputation, and from his somewhat limited experience, the beasties actually did prefer the dark. His guess was they were taking advantage of their superior senses, aware Humans didn't see too well in the dark. Well, some Humans. Some Humans didn't even need to see to be aware of the threat.  
  
Once they arrived, he took off what was left of his jacket, and was startled when something fell out of his pocket. It looked like some kind of mechanical debris, and fears that somehow he'd been bugged gave way to the realization that his cell phone had been busted down to its constituent parts. Probably happened when the snake thing flung him through the fence. The funny thing was, the gun he'd stolen from the Triad guy back in Hong Kong was still in one piece, and in perfect working condition.  
  
Helga was tired, and far more disillusioned than she had let on previously. She told him to help himself to any of Bob's clothes, and told him where the towels were when he went to quickly wash the blood and demon goop off of him. He knew things were bad when she didn't even attempt to join him in the shower.  
  
When he came out, towel wrapped around his waist, to see what he find in Bob's chest of drawers (absolutely no "Sausage Victim" t-shirts; he could go without a shirt if that's all he had), he found Helga laying on top of the bed, fully clothed, back towards him, tail lolling limply over the side of the mattress. She'd pulled the heavy blue velvet curtains over the window, so almost no light was bleeding into the small bedroom, which was so cool from air conditioning that goosebumps broke out all over his skin. Even though he actually shivered, he didn't worry about it - he'd be fine in a minute. "You okay?" He asked, aware it was a deeply stupid question.  
  
"Yes and no. Can you come over here? I don't feel like being alone at the moment."  
  
Not an overt sexual overture, and since Helga was far from subtle about such things - after all, he could still remember her actually tackling him before they had sex for the first time - he figured it wasn't about that. He laid down next to her on the bed, turning over to face her back and wrap his arms around her waist, but not before moving her tail so he didn't squish it. She pressed back against him, and brought his arm higher up, until it was almost rest across her throat. "Warm, clean Human skin," she said quietly, "That's a nice smell."  
  
"Not always."  
  
"Yeah, well, it can be." She was quiet for a moment, and her tail slithered against his legs, trying to find a more comfortable position. "What if you're all that's left of him?"  
  
"What?" He almost pointed out Bob had actual family - children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and on and on, ad infinitum - and he wasn't one of them. But she didn't mean blood of his blood, harborer of some scattered, random genes: she meant keeper of his power, the energy he had and the energy he actually was. As an energy being trapped in a finite, physical form, his power was him; it wasn't just something he had, sans intelligence or personality - it was as much an actual part of him has a leg or an arm, a heart or frontal lobe. Logan knew, as much as he didn't like to think about it, that he wasn't just harboring a bit of Bob's power in his head, but an actual piece of Bob himself. A rather dark piece, if you could believe what he'd heard about what the Senior Partners had unleashed. (The same Senior Partners that might have killed Angel, Spike, and gods knew who else to a hell dimension or killed them for fighting against them? The same ones that killed Wesley? Wow, he really didn't feel good about that right now. Although, he and Helga had taken a detour to see what had become of the Wolfram and Hart building, preparing to storm that goddamn viper pit and ask what the fuck happened to Angel. They were stopped short by what they saw - rubble. A big, huge pile of debris and broken glass, being surrounded by police with safety tape. They didn't know what happened, although someone said a gas main had exploded near the base of the structure, a heretofore unknown leak, and the whole building collapsed in on itself. So, dead or in some Hell or who knew what, maybe Angel could be content knowing he'd won one battle here - maybe the big evils were still around, but at least he'd blown their house down.)  
  
"You could be it, you know. In fact, that's why we probably have to get you into hiding or something. We -"  
  
"Hiding? Fuck you!"  
  
"If they kill you -"  
  
"I wish 'em a hell of a lotta luck. Hel, even if they do kill me, and then kill Bob, Bob doesn't die, right? He just goes back to his native dimension, whatever that is, and can come back here for round two."  
  
"Except she can kill gods."  
  
"But she'd kill me like a normal person."  
  
She turned her head slightly on the pillow, trying to look back at him over her shoulder. "Yeah. What are you getting at?"  
  
"The bit of Bob energy in me. I die, it goes back to its home dimension. Could Bob … well, grow isn't the right word, but you know what I mean … could he come back from that? Heal up, like me?"  
  
She turned back towards the window, eyes narrowed in thought. He felt her tail softly brush against her ankle as the tip of her tail twitched slightly, and it was almost a full minute before she said, "I don't really know. I know Bob is supposedly from a powerful "family" of gods …"  
  
"So it's possible, isn't it? Kaliratra or whatever the hell her name is is pretty much fucked. There's no way for her to really win."  
  
"But Logan, you'd have to die for that happen."  
  
He shrugged a single shoulder, burying his face in her neck. Her skin smelled pretty good too. "Que sera sera. If it happens, at least maybe there's some good that'll come out of it. And besides, maybe Bob'll be so grateful he'll resurrect me - you can't discount anything with him, can you?"  
  
She let out an impatient sigh. "I don't want you to die, Logan! Not him, not you. There's been enough death."  
  
He didn't know what to say to that; she was right, of course. So he didn't say anything, just held her tight as she snuggled back into him like a warm blanket. Her tail curled around his calf possessively, like an affectionate snake. "You know, I always told Bob I'd marry him if only we could include you."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"A group marriage - you, me, him. Common among my people, although usually in not so small a group. I think the minimum there is usually four."  
  
Helga seemed to think up new ways to flabbergast him. "Uh … not that I'm not flattered Hel, but y'know that's not legal. Well, except maybe in Utah."  
  
"Not in most Human laws, but among demon laws, you bet it's legal. Otherwise, they'd have to arrest all Stansins, and other demon clans that believe in plural marriages."  
  
"But … wouldn't that mean I was also married to Bob?"  
  
"Technically. But I wouldn't worry about him making late night booty calls." She looked back and flashed him a shit eating grin, her teeth almost shockingly white in contrast to her pale green lips.   
  
"Ha. I'm sorry, hon, but I ain't signin' up to become one of his future ex-wives, thank you."  
  
"Spoilsport." She moved one of his arm, wrapping it around her torso, just beneath her breasts. Not that he was going to complain. They had to talk about Bob like he was just in the next room, or simply away on a business trip, because talking about him as dying or dead any longer was simply too hard to do.  
  
"Can I get dressed now?" He wondered.  
  
"Not yet. Just stay here a minute, okay? I can't shake the feeling that something worse is going to happen, and I want you where I can see you. Or at least feel you."  
  
He sighed, sounding more put upon than he felt. "The things I do for you. I hope you appreciate it."  
  
She scoffed, and settled back into his warmth, her skin soft and smooth against his. He just held her, listening for her breathing and heart rate to slow, deepen, give off signs of sleep. He could leave her, but after everything that had happened tonight, he didn't really feel like doing that. He breathed in the scent of her skin, felt her heartbeat against his own chest, and suddenly realized he was tired too. Maybe it was the lingering traces of anodyne, or maybe it was adrenaline crash after the big snake fight, but he could feel himself start to drift away. And he didn't stop it, he just let it happen. Maybe now, with everything that was happening, it was time to just grab the small pleasures where you could.  
  
Because tomorrow, you might not be alive to enjoy them.  
  
11  
  
The infusion of Camaxtli's power brought a lot of things with it that she hadn't anticipated. For one thing, she could sometimes see the future.  
  
Oh, it wasn't as cut and dried as it should have been. Since there were so many dimensions she could access now, Jean could see multiple futures that were correct somewhere, but not always in the dimension she could consider her native one. Sometimes it was easy to tell it was a "foreign" one; sometimes not. And these future "glimpses" - really just peeks, like a gap in the wall between the worlds had suddenly opened up - never lasted long, and often had narrative threads she couldn't hope to follow. Since she'd found no way to control them, she had learned to ignore them.  
  
But she knew instinctively she could not afford to ignore this one.  
  
She wasn't sure if it was actually her native dimension or not. There appeared to be an ocean, but it was now roiling, white with a heavy layer of foam, and the sun was like a baleful bloodshot eye in the sky, engorged crimson that was bleeding out red into the gray sky. She was on a beach, but it was not completely her - her/not her, something swathed in energy like semi-transparent fire, as if her aura was in flames. Her eyes burned as well, peephole glimpses of a supernova.  
  
There were dead - there were lots of dead - but she couldn't see any of them very clearly. She was hurt, though. Even through the fiery feel of her energy, she could feel something like a stabbing pain in her side, a spreading darkness in her peripheral vision, and she knew it was because of her opponent, the last one standing, the one who should have been long dead.  
  
Logan.  
  
But it wasn't Logan, now was it? His eyes burned with blue fire, so great it bled small tendrils of it into the surrounding air, and veins pulsed beneath his skin like worms, full of that noxious, inhuman power. Where he had been cut across the chest and face, his blood was red, but blue light gleamed on his exposed claws, a ghostly visual echo of the physical. She had knocked him down to one knee, but he got to his feet again, as he always did. "Stay down!" She commanded, with a voice that seemed like thunder, even to her ears. "Don't make me do this!"  
  
"Don't make me!" Logan shouted back, but it wasn't quite his voice. Maybe somewhere in there was a part of him, but really it was just a Logan shell; the body was Logan's, but the drive was all Bob. A hybrid being, split twenty-eighty, if that. "You should've gone when you had the chance, Jeannie!"  
  
Just the sound of his threats infuriated her. Did he not know what she was? She had the powers of the universe at her fingertips, not an avatar but an actual god. And he … he was just an outcast, a refugee, hiding within the skin of a man she … well, a man who used to be her friend. When he was still alive; when she was still -  
  
- (alive) -  
  
- weak. And did Bob, the jumped up idiot, forget she had the power of blood? Power given to her by blood, and power over blood. "You should have left him alone!" She shouted, as she made his blood boil.  
  
Logan's skin burst from the internal heat, and he made some strangled noise as he collapsed to the sand, blood oozing and steaming as it emerged from his split and broken skin, his blue aura fading. Perhaps she felt a twinge of regret for killing what was left of Logan so horribly, but she wasn't about to let him - let Bob - stand in her way. This was her place; she had to cleanse the world. It was the only way forward, the only way to right all the deep and tragic wrongs. She could make the world a better place by simply making it over again - in fact, it was the only way to correct something so horribly flawed.  
  
She had turned her attention to the seas, to the saltwater blood of this planet, and was focused on sending them out, casting them far and wide to do her bidding, to scour the world, when a savage, hideous pain burned through her, a lightning bolt made physical … and lethal. She could feel the burning to the very pit of her soul, her power.   
  
She opened her exterior eyes, gasping for a breath she thought she no longer needed, and found herself face to face with the Logan thing. His eyes had exploded from the internal heat, but that was irrelevant; blue energy had filled the holes, and she suddenly wondered if she had made a grave tactical error, getting rid of some of Bob's physical restraints. Logan still oozed blood from skin cracked like desert sand, but … it was healing. As she watched it was knitting itself back together, but not even Logan could have recovered from such complete and total devastation. "That's not possible," she said, almost to herself, as she felt herself draining away. Although it felt like it was into some new abyss that had opened up beneath her feet, she knew her power was being siphoned into him; somehow, he was sucking her dry.  
  
Logan/Bob grimaced, a pained, evil smile. "I picked him for a reason," he said, an inhuman accent creeping into the vestiges of Logan's voice. "You can teach old dogs new tricks. Even gods." Then he tore her apart, casting all the essence of what she was, had been, and would have been, to the still, hot air of a doomed planet.  
  
And Jean opened her eyes to the present. 


	7. Part 7

She had carved herself a little niche in Osiris's library "universe", so she could rest and be somewhere relatively safe, but there was something suffocating about the setting that even she could not change. Time didn't so much as stand still in Osiris's world than it simply didn't exist - it was a concept that belonged to another space entirely.  
  
She let the barricade dissolve - the supposed "door" between his world and hers - and stormed out into the massive, endless library, where the names of the dead from all possible universes, all possible worlds, kept filling the shelves, making them accordion and expand out into infinity. When he made the perverse and counterintuitive assertion that there were more dead than there had ever been living, she didn't see how that could possibly be, but now she was being to think that somehow, in some way, he was right.   
  
"Osiris," she yelled, finding him easily, in spite of all the shelves, in spite of the miles of distance.   
  
He was standing over the book on his pedestal, the "special" book, the one that recorded the deaths of gods, demi-gods, and quasi-divine beings. That book didn't fill up as fast as all the others. "Yes?" He didn't bother to even turn around and face her.  
  
"Something's gone wrong. Bob isn't going to die."  
  
There was a pause that - also counterintuitively - seemed amused. "You just figured that out?"  
  
"We need to fix it."  
  
"I'm working on it," he assured her with a small wave of his hand, like he was dismissing her. "The avatar has got to go first."  
  
Jean knew that, and on the one hand, she welcomed it - that traitorous bastard could actually be complicit in killing her? She always knew Logan was cold blooded. But on the other hand ... it was him.  
  
She flung out a thought like a spear, and Osiris gasped as if it hit, stumbling away from his podium and hitting a near by shelf. Books tumbled to the floor, and living vines hurriedly extended themselves to pick them up. "I told you I didn't want him hurt!" Red started creeping in at the corners of her vision, and she had no idea if it was his doing or hers.  
  
Osiris glared at her with his large, golden hawk eyes, mouth agape like she had gone mad. "He is his avatar! He has to be taken out if this is going to work!"  
  
"But it doesn't work! I've seen what happens!"  
  
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his misshapened mouth quirked up at one corner, a self-satisfied smirk. "So, you've seen one outcome, have you? I've seen several - and Bob manages to kill you in most. In four, you kill him first, but in only two do you not manage to die yourself. And ultimately the Powers That Be catch up to you, and you're not strong enough to fight them all. You can't quite win, not in the game you're playing. You'll have to come up with a new game, and make sure it doesn't involve pissing off the Powers. Really, them and Eris are the ones you want to actively avoid."  
  
She sneered at him, mentally tightening her grip on his throat. No matter that he didn't need to breathe, or that, as an elemental, it wouldn't matter if she actually hurt him or not. It just felt good to hurt him. "Logan isn't supposed to die. That's the deal."  
  
"Let me explain it to you. He. Has. To. Die. He is his avatar; if Bob dies before he does, Bob will jump to his avatar's body, like Camaxtli jumped to yours. And considering their symbiotic relationship, that's no good."  
  
"Symbiotic?"  
  
Osiris sighed and shook his head as much as he could, as if disappointed in a very slow student. "Look, you used to be a mutant, yes? So is your hairy, bad tempered friend down there. And for some reason, this sometimes meshes well with god power. Camaxtli's powers were enhanced by your own. Conversely, Bob's powers are enhanced by his. You don't honestly believe it was an accident that caused him to be Bob's avatar, now do you?"  
  
Bob's words popped into her mind: 'I picked him for a reason.' "How could Logan's mutation enhance Bob's power? Logan has a physical power, and Bob's an energy being. It doesn't make sense."  
  
"Oh, but it does. He has to live in a physical shell. And while it's hard to hurt his shell enough to kill him, theoretically it can be done."  
  
'You can teach old dogs new tricks. Even gods.' So Bob somehow learns the power of intense physical regeneration from Logan's mutation? Or does he just square his mutation, combining his powers with it, so Bob could never quite die - so he (and consequently Logan, if he chose him as a shell) could be reborn, given enough time, from a single limb, or perhaps even a drop of blood? Crazy, ludicrous, insane ... but, with gods, possible.  
  
"I don't want Logan to die because of Bob. If any of those realities are true anyways, you fuck it up."  
  
Osiris sneered right back at her, almost laughing. His plants had straightened out all the books behind him, and retreated to wherever it was they went. "I'm not the one doing anything, my dear, and have you considered that maybe that outside forces fuck you up? A lot of people don't like Bob, but he does have several powerful allies, as well as an impressive pedigree. Bob's a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. He picked your meat friend for a purpose, and he might have powerful protections on him."  
  
"How powerful?"  
  
Osiris cocked his head in a bird like fashion as he considered the possibilities, making him look even less humanoid than before. "There was a recent shift in the Powers, you know. They lost track of their champion. Until they get a new one, Logan might fill the protected slot, simply because of his ties to the Bob."  
  
She tried to follow the logic, but there was an obvious gap. "Why would these Powers throw protection on Logan due to Bob? That makes no sense."  
  
He chuckled dryly. "You have no idea about Bob's pedigree, do you?"  
  
She glared at him, ready to tighten her mental grip on him, but it slackened with a horrible realization. "Are you saying Bob's one of these Powers?"  
  
"He's of them, yes. But don't let them catch you thinking it - they have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy about Bob. You could call him the mongrel child they've locked in the basement."  
  
"But Kali -"  
  
"Could kill him, 'cause they honestly could give a fuck about Bob. But the avatar … ah, that might be a different story. As I said, the champion seat is currently vacant, and he's already been "touched" - so to speak. Until they find their old champion - or a more deserving candidate - it's possible he's being considered, which means he's probably protected."  
  
"I thought Kali could kill Powers."  
  
"Individually, yes. As a group? No. If they decided to turn their powers on her en masse, she'd be erased from the fabric of time itself. You too. So don't fuck with them."  
  
She completely released Osiris with a frustrated sigh, and he stumbled slightly, banging his bookshelf with his shoulder and causing a couple of books to edge out. The vines quickly appeared to correct the damage. "So you can't kill Logan, but that means we can't kill Bob either, is that what you're saying? So why the fuck are we bothering with this?"  
  
He stood up and attempted to straighten his collar, which was funny, because she was sure his painted on vinyl suit was actually a part of him, an outgrowth of his body. He also tried to assume a dignity he simply didn't have to begin with. "First of all, I had no idea about any of this "champion" vacancy happening right now - I mean, come on. How pompous do you have to be to have a so called "champion" anyways? You're just screwing around with the meat. And second of all, we can still get rid of Bob."  
  
She crossed her arms over her chest, wondering what line of bullshit he was going to feed her now. "How?"  
  
"Simply remove your meat friend, Logan, as Bob's avatar."  
  
"You mean kill him."  
  
"No - unmake him Bob's avatar."  
  
She wasn't sure if she should be indignant or enraged, so she settled for annoyed. "What the hell are you talking about it? Unmake him?"  
  
He shook his head again, and returned to his pedestal, although he was careful to keep her in his limited peripheral vision. "An avatar can be usurped by another god, if the god is more powerful than the previous one. Think of it as a chess game, capturing knights and pawns."  
  
She had a vague memory of Camaxtli's death, since she got some of his memories (fragmented though they were) along with his power. And she could remember Logan, playing for time or playing for her, offering himself as Camaxtli's avatar, in her place. He must have known about that loophole. Or was it just a happy coincidence?   
  
A terrible pang of conscience came with that memory. To offer his life in place of hers … if he was lying, Camaxtli would have known; Logan's mind was an open book to him. And he was terrified of being used again, mentally captive and enslaved to something else, but he meant it. Gods bless that frustrating, troublesome man, he meant it - he would have died for her. (And some part of Jean, some ugly knew part, thought he was a tremendous fool. And that's probably why the Powers were looking him over, because they liked easily emotionally manipulated fools and puppets. Did she think she was special? Logan probably would have died for anyone; there was a big segment of his unconscious that wanted terribly and desperately to die, to be done, but he was the only one who didn't seem to know that. Coward; self-pitying idiot.)  
  
She swallowed back the conflicting feelings of affection and hate, and asked, "What god is stronger than Bob, and in need of an avatar?"  
  
"That's a very good question." He looked back over his shoulder, and he gave her a leering, gloating grin. "Let's find out, shall we?"  
  
It was all she could do not to mentally reach out and throttle him again. Perhaps this was a partnership of necessity, but she didn't trust this ghoul as far as she could fling him.  
  
So perhaps it was time to discover who Osiris's enemies were.  
  
12  
  
It took him a moment, but less time than usual to realize he was not dreaming.   
  
He was standing on a fringe of soft blue grass, like moss, watching as a woman painted something on a courtyard, whose floor looked like a stained glass mosaic of random patterns: bursts of red and yellow like flowers, green like foliage, blue like shards of sky. She was sitting cross-legged in the center, on a rare clear patch, hunched over it and tracing figures with a slender brush. He could smell the oil paints from here.  
  
Her hair was a glossy black, as shiny as a midnight ocean, and she was wearing what looked like a loose burgundy silk top and black yoga pants. But just from her silky hair and her slender, pale neck, he knew who it was. "Yasha?" He asked, stepping out into the courtyard. It was comfortably warm under his feet, and not at all slippery.   
  
She glanced up, brushing her hair behind her ear so she could see him better. "Hello Logan." She gave him a faint smile, but enough of one that he felt his heart skip a beat. This was the real her, not some bizarre dream world version that used Stryker as a party favor - this was the real, quasi - existing Yasha.   
  
As he approached, he looked carefully at what she was working on: a painting of three intertwined dragons, like he saw on the box containing the anodyne in Tetsuo's apartment. But before he could ask, the light clicked on in his head - holy fuck, was it that simple? "Three dragons," he said, crouching beside the painting. He pointed at one dragon head each as he said, "The Triad, the Yakuza, and … a demon mob, whoever's trying to force anodyne into the market. Yes?"  
  
She gave him a small, tight smile, her limpid dark eyes bright. He couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. "That's them, all right. But the two heads that think they have the most control are wrong; they're subservient to the third, playing their song."  
  
"The demon mob."  
  
She nodded. "They don't even know they're being used. But then, they wouldn't, would they? They probably don't realize they're dealing with demons."  
  
"Fujimori was just the tip of the iceberg."  
  
"Indeed. The loudest and the boldest. They probably would have killed him if we hadn't, just because he was attracting so much attention to them."  
  
"Do you have any idea what the purpose of anodyne is?"  
  
"Except to raise some scratch? No, I don't. You're going to have find it out, I'm afraid."  
  
He nodded in agreement, and sat on the courtyard, folding his legs up in a mock lotus position. Out of simple desire, he reached out and touched her arm, eager to simply feel her skin again. It was almost warm, like she'd just fed. "How are things in … does this place have a name?"  
  
"Not that I know of. And it's fine; it's always fine. Kind of dull, really. I do miss busting heads."  
  
"It's too bad you can't come back. We could use you right now."  
  
"I know, I've heard." Her hand slipped into his, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. "That's kinda why I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Oh?" He had a bad feeling about this.  
  
"You're gonna go after the gods that hurt Bob, aren't you?"  
  
"Well," he sighed. "We're gonna try. Think Ammit would be willing to help?"  
  
"She's attempting to help behind the scenes. She really has no desire to return to the Earth plane. Besides, it might spark a fight between her and the rest of the Ogdoad."  
  
He almost asked why, but decided not to, as it was probably more soap operatic god shit, and honestly, he'd had enough of that. "How is she helping behind the scenes?"  
  
"She's trying to track down who let Kali loose."  
  
"Kali?" He realized, with a sudden shock of sick horror, "Kali, the Hindu goddess? Kali of the black tongue? I thought the ex who attacked Bob was named Kaliratri or something."  
  
"One of her complete names is Kalaratri, "black night". She is pretty nasty, from what I understand. She started out with good intentions, but once she fought Shiva to the death and absorbed his power, it all went downhill."  
  
Wow. Things actually could get worse, even in a scenario like this. "She killed Shiva, the world destroyer?"  
  
"Apparently. Now she is, by default, Shiva; or in other words, the Destroyer."  
  
Logan rubbed his eyes with his free hand, aware he probably couldn't get a headache wherever the hell they were, but it still felt like it. "So, let me guess - she's probably worse than Kumiho?"  
  
"I never met her, but I would guess."  
  
"Shit. We barely survived that one, and we had Bob to take the brunt of the damage. We're so screwed."  
  
She squeezed his hand a little tighter, gaining his attention. "You have more weapons than you realize."  
  
He stared into her ebony eyes, wondering exactly what she meant. "How so?"  
  
"Bob didn't leave you defenseless. You know he left you some power - use it."  
  
"Use it how? I ain't a power slinger. I can only use it if a telepath attacks me."  
  
"There must be some other way you can use it. There must be some kind of trigger. Think about it. There's also something else: many demons would love to hurt a god, given a chance, and given some way of actually having a slight edge on it."   
  
"That bit I do know. But why the fuck would demons help me? Y'know how many I've killed?"  
  
She gave him a slightly stern look, like he was being deliberately obtuse. But her look softened as she reached up and brushed her fingertips along the side of his throat. "You have my mark." He knew that was where she had bit him, when he offered her his blood. Of course the scars had long healed, but he knew vampires somehow seemed to know when you had been bit, whether you had the marks or not. And as she stroked his skin, he recalled that wonderful sense of oblivion, the almost erotic warmth of … well, dying. It was dying, wasn't it? Of his blood pouring out of him and into her, the sense of falling into darkness, into the welcoming torpor of null and void. It was awful that a near death experience was a happy memory, wasn't it? "And you could get another one of my marks, as further evidence."  
  
"You gonna bite me again?"  
  
"Hardly, although it is a nice thought. Go to my home, get my dotanuki, samurai. It has my mark on it - you'll know it when you see it. Use my name while it is still remembered."  
  
A dotanuki was a heavy sword favored by feudal Japanese warlords; its name literally translated to "sword that cuts through torsos", as it was meant to slice through its target with a single blow. They were sharp, and if done well, incredibly beautiful. Well, for swords. They were a lost art, as they weren't made much anymore, save for "reproductions". "I will. Thank you."   
  
And then he was overcome with terrible guilt, as he remembered that he had given her his life, putting his very existence in her hands, and she had spared him - for whatever reason, she hadn't drank all of his blood, and she had saved him from being lost forever in that endless sleep. Had he actually thought, for a second, that she could have betrayed him? Either the guilt showed on his face, or this was a mental plane where being telepathic was irrelevant, because her hand moved up to cup the side of his face, palm scraping against the stubble. She moved her face towards his, close enough that their noses almost touched. "You just can't trust easily, can you?" She said, giving him a tiny, sympathetic smile.   
  
"No. I feel like an idiot for ever doubtin' you."  
  
"As you should. But I understand, hon; trusting isn't my strong suit either." She kissed him on the tip of his nose. "But you ever think that way of me again, I will reach through your chest and show your heart to you before you die."  
  
He couldn't help but smile. "Ouch. You give new definition to the term "bad ass", don't cha?"  
  
"I try. We have to have to in this biz, huh?"   
  
His only answer was to kiss her, the taste of her mouth much more than a vivid memory, her body still warm, as if her skin had been warmed by the sun. But it hadn't, not really; she was just neither alive nor dead, nor in some strange alternate state. She was a being trapped in another dimension, where corporeality could be considered both optional and tenuous. He didn't know how he was here, but he suspected Ammit must have had something to do with it. But the why of it bothered him - was it because she knew Bob was struck down? Or was there more to it than that?   
  
He pulled back enough to look into her eyes, and asked, "Mei Li, are you giving up?"  
  
The use of her real name, her pre-vampiric name, always had an impact on her. He had a feeling he was the only living person - not a Watcher - who knew it. He saw the weariness in her eyes, muscles working beneath the porcelain skin of her delicate jaw, before she admitted, "I'm going to make sure you get through this. But then, yes, I may call it an existence. I can only take so much of this supposed paradise. It's the worst time possible to discover you actually prefer chaos."  
  
He shrugged, torn between wanting to beg her not to, and sympathizing completely with her position. She had undoubtedly lasted longer than he would have. "Maybe you don't prefer it; maybe you're just used to it." He was aware of the irony in that statement - he may as well have been talking to himself.  
  
"Maybe. Still, I think I've been around long enough. And, you know, sylphs can get really annoying really fast."  
  
"I bet." He rested his forehead against hers, and after a moment of wonderful calm, he sighed, "I have to go, don't I?"  
  
"I think you ought to." She moved a hand through his hair, letting it smooth down the back of his neck; it felt good. "But I can't tell you how good it was seeing you again."  
  
"I think I know. I've missed you too." He kissed her one more time, hoping it wasn't the last (yet roughly certain it was), and then made himself stand up. He didn't want to get booted out of this dimension - he had so little actual dignity left, he might as well hold on tightly to what he had. But she kept a hold of his hand, and they both seemed reluctant to let go. She was lonely, he knew it, just as he knew he was lonely too. "Why me?" He wondered.  
  
He didn't need to elaborate here; she knew what he meant. She rolled her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "You were the oddest man I had ever met. That made you interesting. The dead really don't feel, but sometimes, I thought maybe I did. At least you could irritate me enough to make me feel rage." He smirked, intending to make a joke about how flattering that was, when she added, "I could have loved you, you know. Given time enough."  
  
That made something catch in his chest, constrict, and it took him a moment to find his voice. "I'm gonna have to ask 'why' again, y'know."  
  
"Go on, get out of here, you self-pitying bastard," she ordered, but smiling patiently. He started to walk away, but only let her hand slip from his grasp when he absolutely had to. He looked back at her, giving her a melancholy smile that probably mirrored hers, and then -  
  
- he woke up. There was almost no transition at all - he had been there, and now he was here.   
  
Here alone, where a woman with a thick Australian accent was cursing up a blue streak in the front room. Oh good, Amaranth had arrived.  
  
He slid out of bed and started rifling through Bob's chest of drawers, leaving his towel behind on the bed. (Well, if Ammy stormed in here, she deserved to see his naked ass.) He couldn't believe how many "Sausage Victim" and "Cockshutt Old Peculiar" shirts Bob had - this had to be a joke, right? He felt weird enough about putting on some other guy's boxers, even if they were just Bob's, and if they had shared a body before, what was underwear? (And all he had was silk, which was actually really nice.) Bob also had lots of leather pants (man, what was with this guy?!), but he found a pair of jeans he was able to slip on, as Ammy continued cursing up a storm in the living room. One of these days, he was going to find out exactly what "drongo" meant.   
  
An exhaustive search for a decent, plain t-shirt turned up absolutely nothing, so he had to settle for a black t-shirt that was perhaps the lesser of the evils - it had "Mr. Bungle" written across the chest in small white letters, with "California" written underneath it in smaller red letters, and a tiny, angry red sun off to one side, with the white silhouettes of a couple and a palm tree within the orb. It was the least weird of all the shirts he found, so it won by default. Would it have killed Bob to own something bland and anonymous? Oh, come to think of it, yeah. This was the guy with the feather boa and the swagman's hat with all the corks.  
  
He walked out into the living room pulling the shirt on, as he caught a fragment of the current snit. " - did this to him! I don't care if we hafta bring down all the heaven dimensions, we're gonna do this slag who -" Ammy broke off as soon as she saw him, and asked angrily, "Oi! What do you plan to do about this?!"  
  
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and told her, "What you were sayin'. Storm heaven and bring it down. Can't be that hard."  
  
Ammy looked like her usual self - punky, messy cobalt blue hair, that matched her eyes and lips, wearing a black sleeveless shirt with an artful, deliberate diagonal tear at the top of the chest, and olive drab surfer shorts that fell to her knees, and looked odd with her tan hiking boots. She also wore a pendant that looked like a tiny, azure colored crystal ball, and a silver charm bracelet full of alternating jade elephants and tiny porcelain skulls (assuming they weren't real skulls). At least it was easy to see she got her fashion sense from her granddad. Or great-granddad, whatever he was.  
  
Both she and Helga looked mildly surprised. "You're serious?" Helga asked.  
  
"I have a plan."  
  
Ammy rolled her eyes and threw up her hands, as if appealing to the sky. "Okay, we're fucked."  
  
"Now, come on! I know Ganesha's a friend of Bob's, right? Do either of you know how to contact him?"  
  
After exchanging wary glances, Helga said, "I could call him … but I don't see how he could help, save for bending entropy around us."  
  
"The goddess who attacked him is Kali, right? Hindu origin? Maybe Ganesha has some idea what her weaknesses are. Also, if anyone knows where Bob's god killing knife is, we'll need that too. And I need a teleport to Vancouver and back. Think you can handle that, Ammy?"  
  
"Don't call me that," she snapped, blue lips twisting up in a half sneer. "Why the fuck do you think we can do any of this?"  
  
"'Cause Bob left me some of his powers, and I think we're getting a little help from a higher source."  
  
"How much higher?" Helga wondered.  
  
"Ammit."  
  
They exchanged questioning glances and shrugs, accepting that that was pretty good. No one asked him how he knew this, and for that he was glad. "Why do you need to go to Vancouver?" Hel asked, putting a hand on her hip.  
  
"I need to get something to show I know Lady Blood."  
  
"And that's important 'cause ..?"  
  
"I'm gonna raise an army of demons. No way are we taking on this bitch alone. We're gonna throw everything at her that we can."  
  
Ammy glared at him, her cobalt eyes almost glowing with rage. "And how long do ya think a million demons would last against a god, huh?"  
  
"If Bob's taught me anything, it's that there's a counter-measure for everything. Ressiks and Freniks are immune to him. Some demons must be immune to Kali - it's just a case of finding out what. And I'm gonna apologize in advance, Amaranth, but we're gonna lean on you heavily. You're not just a witch, but of the blood, so if you can't call in the big guns, no one can."  
  
She huffed an impatient sigh through her nose, crossing her arms over her chest, making her charm bracelet jingle. "Damn it. I just knew you were gonna take advantage of me again." But she didn't sound that put out by it. "Fine, but no plan goes forward without my okay, got it?"  
  
He nodded, figuring they could argue about it later. "Can I get a trip to B.C.?"  
  
Her bright blue eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "You thinkin' about the place you wanna go?"  
  
"I am now."  
  
"You've got twenty minutes before the spell rebounds. Don't be sittin' down, or you'll fall straight on your arse." She then said something in old Latin - it sounded a lot like "go away" - and flicked her hand in his direction.   
  
The teleportation was instantaneous. One second he was standing in Bob's living room, with Hel and Ammy, and the next he was standing in Yasha's living room, having hardly felt reality slip at all. Damn, she was good. He intended to head for her weapons cabinet, but he saw something out of the corner of his eye, and turned towards the front door.  
  
Someone had slipped a note under the front door. Not just any old note, but one inside a marble patterned envelope, smelling ever so slightly of blood. Oh joy, what new - or old - problem was this? He almost didn't want to see, but at this point, he had no choice. If someone was coming after Yasha, it was best he knew now, before they got the jump on him. 


	8. Part 8

He picked up the envelope, and noticed it was a piece of postal mail, with a British postmark. There was no return address on it, save for the words 'Underground, Mayfair'. He knew the latter was a section of London, but 'underground'? Certainly not a reference to the London subway system. But what was it referring to?  
  
He carefully opened the envelope, expecting something nasty to fall out, but all there was was a single sheet of paper, stationary matching the blue marble patterned envelope. Written in dark ink - no, blood - in a delicate hand, were the words, "We're in. We'll be ready, just give the word." There was no name on it, just the single initial "H" scratched at the bottom in the same light pseudo-calligraphy. And why the hell was it written in Human blood?  
  
It took him a moment, but he thought he understood. This referred, in some capacity, to Yasha's secret war against the "Three Dragons". It was some demon group in London signing on to the cause, probably because they were a mob themselves, and feared getting muscled out of business.   
  
Terrific. He just found warriors for his cause.  
  
He stuffed the letter in his jeans pocket, and then went to search her weapons cabinet. He didn't actually have to search, though - it had to be among her swords, and as soon as he opened the main cabinet, he was sure he saw it, dead center in the rack holding her major swords up in a vertical position.  
  
It was nearly three feet long, from tip to haft, subtly curved, in a hard leather, beetle black sheath that matched the color of the leather wrapped haft. He slid out the blade like it was slick, and there, embossed in silver at the base of the blade, was a curving snake - exactly like the tattoo she had on her back. Her mark. This was exactly what he was looking for.  
  
Before he put it back into its sheathe, he tested the sword, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was heavier than your average sword, but perfectly balanced, and sliced through the air like throwing knife, with a soft 'whoosh'. He bet it was sharp enough to cut through steel. It was a beautiful sword, and he had an urge to use it, even though he would hate to taint such a perfect blade with blood. Then again, it probably already had been stained with blood, many times. She kept it in top condition, though.  
  
Realizing he had some time to kill, he decided it was high time he came up with an actual plan before Ammy and Helga actually called him on it.  
  
Damn it, it was always something.   
  
13  
  
General Nathaniel Black walked down the sterile hall while he wondered why he'd bothered to come into work today. He had nothing pressing on his agenda - all the papers had been shredded, all the bodies buried, all the merchandise in order. But you did have to punch in sometimes, didn't you? Just to keep up morale.  
  
But he didn't plan to stay long. As it was, he wasn't completely sure he had erased all his jump drives, and you only needed to fuck up on one to have it come back and bite you on the ass.   
  
He put his briefcase on his barren desk, and went around to unlock the drawers, humming tunelessly to himself. What was this stupid song stuck in his head? He wasn't sure at all, and yet it was starting to drive him bananas.   
  
He sat down in his plush chair as he opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a small clutch of jump drives, depositing them on his blotter before he went for the bulk eraser.  
  
But as he briefly raised his head, he caught someone in the corner of his vision.   
  
He turned, startled, to see a man in a wheelchair sitting in the far corner - a man who hadn't been there when he came in. And didn't he look just a little familiar?  
  
"Do you think it would do you any good?" The man asked, his voice betraying a highly cultured New England accent.  
  
Black's hand froze as he reached for his sidearm. The man had pale blue-gray eyes and a bald pate that reflected a bit of the low lighting, almost making it look like he had a subtle glow around his head. He knew that wasn't true, but it was still eerie. He sat there serenely, hands folded on his lap, dressed in a neatly tailored dark suit, and if it wasn't for the hard look in his eyes, you could easily think he was simply here for a meeting. "How did you -"  
  
"Let's not play this game," Xavier said. "You know who I am, and you know going for a gun isn't going to happen. And do you think you can call for help if I've gotten this far?"  
  
He didn't want to admit that he had a point. He felt frozen to his chair, but whether that was Xavier's doing or just his own shock he couldn't say. "Wh-what do you want?"  
  
"I want you to call off your dogs. I know you have connections to the Organization, and you must know they're moving against us once again - Logan in particular. One of the children was hurt very badly in your latest assault. If the cold blooded murder of Leonie had not been enough by you …" He trailed off, grimacing in disgust. "I'd appeal to your sense of decency, but obviously you people don't have any. I dislike violence, but I won't see any more children hurt. Is that clear?"  
  
"Is that a threat of some sort?"  
  
He gave him a tight smile that never met his eyes, shaking his head as if disappointed. "I'm not Logan; I'd never kill you, and we both know it. But to think I'm helpless is idiotic. Why else did you plan this attack when I was away? You didn't want to risk a telepathic interception."  
  
"Look, I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, and heard an odd noise emanating from his desk. Looking down, he found himself writing on a piece of paper.  
  
Where the paper had come from - or the pen in his hand - he had no idea. Nor did he have any idea why he kept scrawling, over and over again, in increasingly messy ways, 'Stop it'. He tried to stop doing it, as the paper itself seemed to command, but could not; his body didn't seem to be paying attention to any of his wishes. He grabbed his wrist with his free hand, but he kept on writing, like his right hand was possessed or something.  
  
And in its way, it was. But not in a typical manner. He glared at the man in the wheelchair, and snapped, "Stop this!"  
  
"I want you to understand who you're dealing with. I won't kill any of you, not in a typical manner. But just think what I could do to you instead." He paused, to let that message sink in, and then added, with a very dark look in his eye, "You think Logan's amnesia is bad? Wait until I'm through with all of you."  
  
Black opened his mouth, but then closed it, as he realized he didn't know what to say. His right hand was now writing on his desk, in jagged, large strokes like the visual equivilent of a scream, 'Stop it'. He decided to change tactics and rip the pen out of his hand, but it took a moment, as his fingers seemed locked around it, as if in rigor mortis.   
  
When he finally got the pen free, his hand went limp, and Black looked up angrily, snarling, "Look you -"  
  
Xavier was gone.  
  
In fact, didn't the room seem a lot more brightly lit now? As he looked around warily, he noticed that there was nothing written on his deak, that there was no piece of paper, no words. There was a pen though, the very one he had ripped out of his own rebelling hand. Where had that come from?  
  
He reached for the emergency button, to alert security of an intruder on the premisis ... but stopped before he reached it. Xavier had never even been here, had he? It was all in his mind. And that was the problem, wasn't it?  
  
A small shiver snaked down his spine as he realized just how vulnerable he was, and how Xavier could have done anything to him.  
  
And he would have never known.  
  
14  
  
So, he had a plan when Ammy brought him back from Vancouver. Not a great plan, as she was very quick to point out (good old Ammy, pissing on everybody's parade), but since no one had a better one at the moment, they decided to go with it.  
  
And, since they were going to England, at least initially, he added, "We should probably take Wes with us."  
  
Helga gave him a mildly startled look. "Why?"  
  
"He's gotta have family there, someone who ... somebody who'd want to see him treated properly, for once." Just remembering he was dead brought back that cold, hollow ache in his gut, a combination of sorrow and rage that was one of his more constant companions.  
  
Ammy looked between them, obviously confused. "Hold up. Wes, the pommy bastard?"  
  
Helga grimaced, and told her, "He's dead. He got killed last night in the ... ruckus." Well, what else could you call it? Apocalypse lite?  
  
To Logan's great shock, something like pity flashed across Ammy's face, and she had the grace to glance away, flushing pale blue in brief embarrassment. "Ah, fuckin' ay, I didn't know. Sorry. For a ... for a pom, y'know, he wasn't that bad."  
  
That was probably as close to a heartfelt apology as you could get from Ammy, so he accepted it with a terse nod, and forged ahead, deciding he didn't want to think about Wes's death. The ache in his gut was already unbearable. It was awful to think that he never really thought about him as a genuine friend, but he was, he helped him a lot, and he never knew why. Why did Wesley seem to instantly like him? Why did he go out of his way to help him? Because that's what he and Angel did? They helped people - whether they really wanted it or not, whether they knew it or not. God, he was so much a better man than he was, but which of them was still sucking air? It only proved the cliché about the good dying young. Well, young-ish.  
  
Logan cleared his throat, and said, "So, England?"  
  
Hel nodded, running a hand through her spiky green hair, trying to pretend there wasn't a sudden, awkward pall. "Yeah, give me fifteen minutes to pack up weapons and shit. And I can go to the hospital -"  
  
"No, it's my turn," he told her, meaning it. Hel had seen that Wesley's body wasn't just thrown on the pile, another anonymous corpse in a secret war that few knew about. It was now his turn to see Wes the rest of the way home. It was the least he owed him. She seemed to understand that, and simply nodded.  
  
"Which hospital is this?" Ammy asked.  
  
Hel waved her hand, as if swatting at an invisible fly, and said, "Saint Demonica. Lorne brought him there in hopes the resident shamans could bring him back, but he was both too Human and too dead. I said he was an Oberon to keep him from being taken to the kitchen."  
  
Oh fuck - she wasn't kidding about that? Well, to look at it from a certain angle, it was a form of recycling,   
  
"Great - then my appearance will seem logical."  
  
He raised an eyebrow at the blue haired witch. "What?"  
  
She rolled her eyes like a snotty teenager, and said sternly, "Look, you wanna drag a corpse through the streets? I think not. I'll teleport ya there, we'll grab the p- Wesley, and then I'll zap you with him over to England. I'll then get Hel here and we'll join ya."  
  
In theory it was a good plan, but there were a few flaws. "Uh, wait a minute here. First of all, I can't just show up in the middle of a roundabout with a corpse, even a native son, and secondly, I have no idea who Wesley's relatives are. I bet I could find 'em, given time - in spite of his attempts to soften it, he had a pretty specific regional accent - but I ain't sure how much time I have."  
  
"Ask 'em at Hendon's."  
  
It was his turn to glare at her. Ammy usually just glared at everyone, so he hoped she enjoyed this glimpse of her own expression. "What the fuck is Hendon's?"  
  
"Oh," Helga suddenly exclaimed. "That's that place, isn't it?" Logan switched his glare to her, but Helga was nice enough to elaborate. "Hendon's is this funeral home that caters to members of the Watcher's Council. I mean, yeah, Wes was sacked, but he'll still be in their database. And since he died fighting evil, they won't turn him away."  
  
"Considering most of the Council's dead, there isn't a hierarchy to complain about impropriety either," Ammy added, as if that was a good thing. Maybe it was, he really didn't know. It made him suddenly wonder if Ruby, that unpleasant Watcher "friend" of Bob's (and part time werewolf) was still alive. If she wasn't, he wasn't sure if he should be sad or elated.   
  
Logan shifted the sword until it rested on his back (he found a strap he connected to the sheath, for easy carrying), and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not gonna be able to talk you outta this, am I?"  
  
Ammy glared back at him with her electric sapphire eyes. "I'm goin'."  
  
He knew there was no point in arguing with her, unless you enjoyed beating your own brains out on a brick wall. And since he wasn't in the mood for that, he let it go. "Fine. Can we get going then?"  
  
"Hold your bloody horses, Wombat."  
  
"Call me that again, and I'll never call you anything but Rhododendron."  
  
They both glared at each other, and Logan just knew this whole trip was going to be as much fun as inserting adamantium slivers under his fingernails. More reason to get it over with as quickly as possible.  
  
He wondered if they could set this aside long enough to get Wesley home.

* * *

When he woke up, Dell had no idea where he was, or why the taste of vomit was so strong in his mouth. He tried to push himself up from his position, face down on a dirty wooden floor, in a pool of something cold and slimy, but he had neither the coordination or strength to do it. He waited a minute, and tried again.   
  
This time he managed to shove himself up, arms trembling like they might collapse at any moment, and he saw he'd been laying in a puddle of his own vomit. (Well, he hoped it was his own vomit … ) It was mostly liquid though, and was now little more than a large black spot on the floor, cold and slick, but nothing substantial; in hours, it would be dried to nothing but an old stain.  
  
He sat back on his haunches, wiping the saliva off his face, and wondered if people were supposed to feel this way - light and insubstantial, like a garbage bag full of balsa wood and dead leaves, his brain as liquid as ice cream left out in the California sun. Pain kept him tied to earth, subject to gravity, reminded him he was still substantial: all his joints ached, as if they were slowly rusting away, and his stomach was a solid, gnawing wound. Maybe eating would help - he couldn't remember the last time he ate anything. But it didn't matter; food brought him no pleasure, and often it was hard to keep down anyways. Food made him feel leaden, more tightly beholden to the earth. The only thing worth anything was the drugs; the drugs made the pain go away.  
  
If he allowed himself to think about it, he wondered if he was an "After-School Special" waiting to happen, and would laugh with a sound like a rusty car door. A stupid, average suburban kid, from a home equal parts pedestrian and shitty, and how he decided to take off after stealing a couple of hundred bucks from his old man's wallet, which the old man was planning to spend on a new boat or some such shit. Fucking Yuppie; people were starving in the streets and he was buying fucking Hummers and plasma screen televisions, the good corporate sheep. And Dell knew all about starving in the streets, because he was one of them.  
  
He couldn't remember when the drugs came into it, although he supposed it was shortly after that visit to the free clinic. That hadn't been his idea, but one of the few friends he'd made out here had worried about him sleeping all the time and sometimes passing out like a narcoleptic. He could remember the Hispanic doctor with the '70's porn star mustache looking at him gravely, and saying something about certain things in his bloodstream - what was it, antibodies, leucocytes, some big word shit like that? He wanted to see if he could find him room in an emergency room, have more tests run, as he seemed to think he might have something serious. The word leukemia was floated.  
  
Almost made him laugh, really. He once had a sister, who died before he was born, and that's what she died of - leukemia. Could it run in a family? They were told no, but maybe. Then again, his dad was a regular Homer fucking Simpson, he worked in a nuclear plant, so maybe he just had diseased, mutant sperm that reared up in his fucked up kids as genetic defects.  
  
Dell agreed to come back, took some multi-vitamins the doc gave him, and walked out, never to return. Either he was ill or he wasn't; from what he understood, hospitals never really helped anyone, did they? It just prolonged the inevitable. And he didn't want to die increments at a time in a hospital, stuck to machines, like he could remember his grandmother doing. He decided to take his chances in the world.  
  
So far he had done fine. Oh sure, the days had slid by in a drug induced haze, with lucid moments where he felt a thousand years old, hollowed out and drained dry. He didn't know where he was most of the time, although he was pretty sure he was still in California. But all shooting galleries looked the same, just like all crack houses looked the same, and all abandoned buildings looked the same. He didn't know what day it was, what month - maybe the year changed, he didn't even know. Did it matter? Just like whether he had eaten recently or not, it was all becoming completely irrelevant.  
  
He used the broken metal frame of what probably used to be a bed to stand up, and staggered to the bathroom … or what passed for a bathroom in this ruined shell of a house. There was a still a toilet, but broken; you couldn't flush it. That didn't stop people from using it, and piss, shit, and blood covered the floor, overflowing from the bowl. The smell was nauseating, but no worse than the taste of vomit in his mouth.   
  
He turned the taps on, not sure if they worked, and got a single trickle of semi-rusty cold water in the chipped, stained sink. He let the water run until it was as clear as it would get, then cupped his hand beneath the stream until he collected as much as he could. He poured the water in his mouth, gargling slightly, and spit into the lime and rust stained basin, aware he was replacing the taste of sickness with the taste of metal and chlorine.  
  
As soon as he had gotten rid of it as much as possible, he lifted his stained t-shirt, and checked to make sure it was still there. It was. The pink.  
  
Actually, that was a nickname that probably wouldn't take, as it sounded too gay. It was a new drug, called ano, that a friend of his who was a runner for a dealer in Chinatown gave him a few samples of. He was supposed to spread it around, get his fellow junkies aware of the new drug in town, but he really didn't spread it around all that much. He did it himself - a lot. This stuff was fucking nirvana.  
  
He had a single hit left, and he taped it to his chest, so in case he passed out and people went through his pockets and possibly stole his shoes, they wouldn't find it. It looked like a blotter of acid - a tiny piece of paper, smaller than a thumbnail, white, with the drug infused in the pink heart shaped illustration in the center.   
  
He ripped the tape off his chest - the tearing away of a few stray chest hairs was a pain that was mild in comparison with all his other pains - and slipped the shard of paper onto his tongue. The drug went to work almost immediately, even before the rice paper dissolved on his tongue.  
  
It was like a pulse of heaven straight into his blood, silky and warm, making tiny white stars burst into life behind his eyes. He could feel his body itself soften, the balsa wood of his bones becoming chenille, dried leaves instantly turning to compost, something moist and granular. He started drifting back towards the empty room where he had previously collapsed, not wishing to end up face first in someone else's waste.  
  
Maybe he made it there before collapsing, he really wasn't sure. He felt like he was hovering off the ground, and never was sure if he was standing up or laying down. Ano was great - the pink took him out of himself, made him feel like a true child of the universe. And he hadn't yet built up a tolerance, like he feared he might.   
  
Then something funny started to happen.  
  
His vision seemed to be clouding up, and he wondered if there was a fire, but he didn't smell smoke. Occluded white light, as soft as clouds, filled his vision, and then it cleared, a black slit forming like the pupil of a snake's eye.   
  
Something started to emerge from that gap. Something … bright and beautiful. It was something like an angel emerging from the dark, naked from the waist up, a beautiful woman with full breasts and a shining mane of white hair, like a drift of snow, falling over one shoulder. Her skin was white and smooth as marble, her eyes glowing orbs of pink energy that gave off an comforting energy like the morning sun. It looked like her body was scaled from the waist down - a mermaid? A snake woman? He didn't know, but her scales were iridescent emerald green with hints of sapphire, and moved sinuously, like a river on its way to the ocean.  
  
"Dell," she said, her voice like a whisper of wind through the eaves. "I've been waiting for you."  
  
He wasn't sure he had a voice, but he thought he heard himself say, "You have?"   
  
"Yes, forever, my love." She touched his face with one white, slender hand, and he shivered, as cold seemed to knife through him. But even in its wake, the pain of it mixed with a tantalizing aftertaste of pleasure. "But you have to invite me in."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The barrier that separates our worlds keep me from reaching you, unless you wish it away," she explained, running her icy fingers down his throat. "Invite me through, let me cross over into your world. I will make the pain go away." He thought he could see figures in the clouds, other snake women like this one, beautiful angels without wings, as the painful pleasure of her chill shuddered through him. Even closing his eyes, he could still see her, his savior. He thought his life was a waste, empty of meaning, but now he realized that maybe he had one. Maybe he was the conduit of angels.  
  
"I invite you," he said, aware it was clunky, but not sure how else to say it. "Come to me."  
  
"Thank you, love," she said, smiling in a way that it seemed to threaten to split her entire face open, revealing teeth like steel needles. "You won't live to regret this." What an odd way to put it. What was that supposed to mean?  
  
And that was the last thing that Dell Crowley ever thought. 


	9. Part 9

15  
  
Hendon's was exactly what you'd expect in a funeral home. Lots of polished walnut and muted colors (no pastels, though, no beige, just a kind of pale burgundy and faded navy blue, and that got aesthetic points), sparse but tasteful furnishings, a high level of order imposed to make clients who had just suffered through the chaos of loss feel a bit safer and more secure. They'd tried to cover up a lingering sent of formaldehyde with rosemary and cinnamon.  
  
They were met at the front desk by a man who could have been John Gielgud's cousin, a tall, balding man in a natty dark suit, with a fringe of snowy hair ringing his head like a crown of laurels, and sleepy gray eyes peering out at them beneath bushy white eyebrows. He was as thin as a reed and stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, and Logan figured if he didn't know better, he'd think this guy was a specter of some sort. No, just a slightly officious, slightly creepy man.  
  
Feeling a bit like an asshole, he started to explain that they had brought with them the body of a former Watcher, and before he could get much further than that, Gielgud interrupted, "What was his name?"  
  
He told him, and he entered it into his computer, just hidden from view on the left side of the desk. After a half a minute of clicking keys, he said, "Oh yes, the Wyndham-Prices, good Watcher family. Seems young Wesley got fired from the Council?"  
  
"Fuck yer bleedin' Council," Ammy interjected savagely. "He got himself skewered fulfilling their mandate. Give him a slot, or I'll erase your hard drives."  
  
He didn't look at all perturbed, just raised an eyebrow slightly, giving her a seriously appraising look. "You're not Human, are you madam?"  
  
Did he know what dangerous ground he was treading on here? "I'm part, but I'm also part Belial, and I got the Blood, don't I? Would you like a demonstration?"  
  
"Look, bub, trust me - don't piss her off. One body's enough," he advised him wearily.   
  
Gielgud was still unfazed. "The Blood? What god are you the progeny of?"  
  
"Bob."  
  
"I'm unaware of a god named Bob."  
  
"Look, dipstick -"  
  
"The Drai'shajan," Logan interrupted, before Ammy could turn him into a frog or whatever.  
  
That made Lurch raise his other eyebrow. "Oh really? I guess that explains the blue." He turned back to his computer, and started typing once more. That seemed to be the end of that.  
  
Then they had to "specify" method of death, as it seemed there were special protocols to be followed if he was killed by specific beings. And special protocol if he was killed by magic or something enchanted. He was starting to wonder if they were on some kind of practical joke show or something, but Lurch was far too serious about it all.   
  
Ammy was getting increasingly hostile, which wasn't good. She kept sticking to her one sentence answer that he was just plain old stabbed by a creepy guy with a regular knife. He wasn't sure how she knew that, and guessed she didn't, she just didn't want to go through this protocol shit any more than he did.  
  
They got through it without anyone new dying, and Ammy didn't change Lurch into a newt, so it seemed like a success. As soon as Hendon's took possession of Wes's body, she went back to California to get Helga, and he wandered out into a London afternoon (? He was pretty sure …) and realized where he was. Not far from King's Road, so that meant he was a stone's throw from Srina's place. He wondered if she would mind if he dropped by. He decided, since he had the free time - and had promised to see her soon - he would.  
  
As he walked down the relatively busy sidewalks, he found himself wondering if any of these people had ever run into Wesley and not known it; if he had ever saved them from something, and they didn't know it. How awful was it to constantly labor in the shadows, to be relegated to the same obscurity and darkness as the creatures you constantly fought?  
  
And why a creeping sense of self-pity? That didn't apply to him. Mutants got splashed on the front page, didn't they? Didn't people point at the articles and say. 'Damn muties. We should just round 'em up and shoot them all'.   
  
(Not fighting mutants, dumbass. Your other job, the one before, where they took away your worthless fucking identity. You were a born spy and assassin, remember? Because who would ever notice a man who worked so hard not to exist?)  
  
Oh, he loved his hostile inner voice. Did he sound like that to other people? He must have, otherwise how would he be seen as such a pleasant person to be around? He knew he didn't smell bad. Unless he'd been fighting demons or rednecks, then of course yeah, blood just lingered.   
  
He needed a new life, badly and terribly. But at this rate, where did you stop to get one?  
  
He came to the bookstore soon enough, and this time was pleasantly greeted by the owner, who must have remembered from the last time he was here. Logan made a mental note to peruse the shelves when he had the time, and went to the back, where there was a doorway leading to the internal stairs leading to the second floor, where Srina's flat was.  
  
Considering the time, he knew it was possible that Srina was out, but half way up the narrow staircase, he heard faint music coming from above. Pete Yorn. Certainly that seemed to fall in Srina's musical taste range - no Megadeth for her. Which was cool; at least she didn't listen to Kenny G.  
  
He knocked on the door, then announced, "Srina, it's me, Logan." He waited a moment, sure he heard some shuffling inside, the slap of bare feet on wooden floor and carpet, and then there was the soft clank and click of locks being undone before the door was opened.  
  
"I'm sorry I -" he began, but stopped as Srina flung herself into his arms and kissed him mid-sentence. Her body felt too warm, and she tasted both of illness and a strong medicine. He held her back at arm's length, and, after catching his breath, said, "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you had a cold."  
  
She did. Viruses and bacteria had different smells, and she smelled like a cold virus. For visual proof, her nose was slightly red, her eyes were glassy and slightly bloodshot, and she had the florid look of a fever victim, even though her bronze colored skin made it difficult to see. She was wearing a purple chenille robe (it didn't quite match her magenta hair and eyes, but it was close), black cotton pajama pants with red Oriental style dragons on them, and a blue t-shirt that sagged on her like loose skin, and he realized belatedly it was a man's t-shirt - one of his? "Hey, what the fuck, right?" She replied, voice airy even though slightly nasal. Wow, look how blown her pupils were. "You don't get colds, do ya? 'Cause if so, sorry for infectin' you."  
  
"I don't get sick. My immune system kills off everything, pretty much. Part of my healing factor."  
  
"Oh goody," she replied cheerfully. Grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. "I wish I had that. You've never been sick? With anything? Ever?"  
  
He shrugged, kicking the door closed once he was across the threshold. "Not that I know of."  
  
"What about food poisoning?"  
  
"Ah. Well technically if it's a toxin or a drug, it's got one shot to kill me or work on me, then that's it. My system will have antibodies to negate it next time it's introduced into my system. Haven't I told you this?" He honestly wasn't sure.  
  
She just shrugged, so stoned on cold medicine she didn't care that much. "That's some cool ass shit. I'm glad you're here."  
  
"You are?"  
  
"Oh yeah. The meds are really kickin' in, and I feel like dancing." She attempted to tug him out into the center of her small living room - the only place where dancing was possible, and yet still not perfectly possible for two average sized people - and started singing along with the music, somewhat drunkenly. "And we held and we tried, there was more than lust between us -"  
  
"Hon, I don't dance," he told her, pulling her towards him as she stumbled over her own feet, and almost literally fell into his chest. "And I really think you need to lay down. How much medicine have you had?"  
  
"Just a snort of Night Nurse and a codeine chaser."  
  
"Are you fucking serious?" He had no idea what "Night Nurse" was - the British version of "Night Train"? - but combining anything that potent with codeine sounded like a really bad idea. "How are you standing up?"  
  
She smiled up at him. "Are you tryin' to get me into bed?  
  
He sighed, and she put her arms around him, leaning into him as if she couldn't quite remain upright. (Possibly true.) "I think bed is a great idea."  
  
Her smile grew wider, meaning even more stoned than before. "I wonder if we share enough body fluids I'll get your immunity."  
  
"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way." Unless she was a vampire, but he wasn't going to mention that.   
  
She patted his back, a curious look on her face. "Is your spine exposed? I'm feelin' something' hard, and it's in the wrong place for your-"  
  
"It's a sword."  
  
"Why is a claw guy carrying a sword?"  
  
How could she be as high as a kite and yet still a smart ass? "I'm holdin' it for someone. C'mon, let's get you to bed before you pass out." He picked her up, sweeping her up off her feet easily, and she let out a little "whoop" of enthusiasm, and draped her arms around his neck. "Why did you take so many meds?"  
  
"I've felt like shit all week. My throat hurt, I couldn't breathe through my nose, I could hardly sleep - even my hair hurt. I tried homeopathic remedies, tea, soup, everything, and finally I figured fuck it, I just want to feel better. I shoulda done this days ago."  
  
"Keep that in mind for next time." He carried her to her small back bedroom, where evidence of her illness were rife: crumpled, used Kleenex dotted the available surfaces of the room like confetti after a parade; the curtains were drawn, and looked as if they might have actual dust on them; and her bed was unmade, a tangle wad of sheets and blankets perched haphazardly on top of the mattress.  
  
Still, he found a relatively even place to put her down on top of the bed, and even so, she didn't let go of his neck, and almost pulled him down on top of her. "Where do you think you're going?" She asked, smiling.  
  
He scowled down at her. "Sex is no fun if someone passes out half-way through."  
  
"I won't pass out if you keep me up."  
  
"Darlin', you need to sleep."  
  
"Not alone. That's old." She pulled him down into a kiss, and he just let it happen, as it wasn't a bad thing. But her hands snaked under his shirt - her skin still felt hot and dry - and he knew she just wasn't going to give up. What the hell was in Night Nurse? Maybe he should keep it in mind as a future aphrodisiac.  
  
He pulled away from her, but rather than fight her, he softly kissed her forehead, then continued to pepper her face slowly and deliberately with kisses, sure to kiss her eyelids, and her cheeks and chin. He could feel her arms start to go limp, and when he reached her neck, her hands fell to her side. "See, I knew just as I started to get interested, you'd pass out," he murmured softly. He got up, pulled the blanket over her, and left the room.   
  
He did feel bad for her. He might not personally know how bad colds were, but he knew no one seems to have a good time with them, and on top of that, she probably stayed up above the bookshop, alone and suffering quietly, probably going "invisible" to leave and lift her cold medicine (she could have bought it, but he had a feeling she didn't), and never actually interacting with another person. He didn't as a rule trust people either, but that seemed ridiculous. People generally sucked, but wouldn't have been nice to just go to the pub and kvetch about how miserable you felt to the barmaid? As much as he sometimes avoided it, human contact was actually necessary, and sometimes - perversely - it even made you feel a bit better, even if you didn't say a thing to anyone. It was one of those weird things even crazed loners like himself couldn't quite beat - Humans were social animals. But Srina was honestly so burned out - or so traumatized? - she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She was so lonely, possibly even lonelier than him at his absolute worst.   
  
He felt responsible. He wasn't sure if he was or wasn't, or only a single contributor to a long time problem.   
  
He turned down her stereo, afraid if he turned it off right now the sudden silence would rouse her, and found a small plastic bottle sitting on her coffee table. Studying the label, he confirmed it was Night Nurse, and seemed to be the British equivalent of Nyquil. Considering how low the level on the bottle was, he wondered how much she took. Shit, should he roll her onto her side, so if she vomited in her sleep she wouldn't choke on it? It was then he heard a noise like a Vespa revving outside, and realized that it wasn't coming from the street below, but from the next room - she was snoring. Loudly. He turned off the stereo.  
  
There was almost no sign of her newfound wealth. Oh, her sound system was better, her television bigger, her DVD all region, but the furniture was the same thrift store specials she always had, the linoleum in her kitchenette still starting to peel in spots, the refrigerator small and humming with a faint, echoing sound, like a mouse was inside it practicing on a kazoo. It looked like she got a more up to date microwave, though.  
  
He had just reached into her fridge for a Guinness - it was still mostly empty, save for beer, diet Pepsi, orange juice, take out cartons from Indian and Chinese restaurants, and a few sad apples - when he sensed the disturbance a millisecond before Ammy and Hel popped into existence just a meter away, between the far counter and the window.  
  
"How the hell did you find me?" He hissed, keeping his voice low, in spite of the fact that Srina continued to snore periodically, and sounded like a chainsaw that was having a difficult time getting started.  
  
Ammy glared at him spitefully, as if he just insulted her. "Ya got Bob's energy in ya don't cha? And why the fuck are we whispering?"  
  
Hel cocked her head, and opined, "I think it's 'cause of the leaf blower in the next room. This a girlfriend's place?"  
  
"Kinda, a friend. Srina."   
  
Hel nodded, clearly remembering he had mentioned her before. Helga had changed into what could be considered her "sex warrior" clothes: black leather pants, boots, and tank top, that showed off a nice bit of jade green cleavage. But she also wore fingerless black leather gloves with silver studs on the knuckles - studs with almost microscopic titanium, copper, and silver shards in them, so they would cut you up as they fucked you up. And her bullet belt was filled with real bullets. He could smell that she had at least one gun hidden on her person. Ammy had not changed, but now carried a small blue knapsack over her right shoulder that smelled pungently of herbs. He could remember Wesley having a bag he called his "emergency magic kit", and felt a brief twinge in his gut. "The invisible mutant? Cool beans. Why didn't you wake her up?"  
  
Ammy shook her head. "She'll be of limited use. Even if they can't see ya, some demons could hear you or smell you."  
  
"She's not in on this. I just came to see her 'cause I promised I would. Besides, she's sick; she's in no shape to fight."  
  
Ammy sighed heavily, the world's bluest martyr. (Come to think of it, why had Lurch said_ "I guess that explains the blue" _after he clarified that Bob was the Drai'shajan? Did they know he was composed of blue energy? Was the color significant, or just chance?) "So it's just us? Man, we've come a guster, haven't we?"  
  
"Oh, wait, no. Am, there's somebody in Los Angeles you gotta go get for me."  
  
"So I'm a fucking taxi service now?"  
  
He glared at her, aware that they should probably just punch the shit out of each other and get it over with. "The Sisters. They said they'd help if we were going after the bitch that got Bob. We ain't there yet, but it's a step on the way, and they'll never miss a fight."  
  
Even Ammy had to admit that was true. She rolled her cobalt eyes, and hissed, "Fuck. It's always the Dunny rats, isn't it?" She then cursed and teleported out of there, leaving him alone with Helga.   
  
He looked at her, and asked, "Did you understand that?"  
  
She shrugged. "I haven't been in Australia that long. Although I think the guster comment was derogatory."  
  
"I got that one." She was giving him a strange sidelong glance as a sly smile began to curl her lips. "What?"  
  
"You're probably about to live out a male fantasy - or maybe a female one, could go either way. You're going into battle with nothing but women." She gave him a wink. "Bob would be so jealous of you."  
  
He stared at her, amazed that that had never even occurred to him. But what a group it was: a former assassin (like him, but a lot better looking), a half demon demi-goddess witch, and a pair of identical twin psychically linked vampires who were just a little more psychotic than your average bloodsucker. And almost no one trusted another one completely.  
  
Oh yeah, that sounded like a total fucking party.

16  
  
She let the boy kiss the girl, as that seemed to be the most efficient way to do this.  
  
It was difficult to remember all the mating rituals of these things, but that seemed to work. She had the boy kiss the girl and pull her into a narrow corridor off the club, and started to drink her soul.  
  
By the time she figured out something was wrong, it was way too late. She tried to pull away, but she pinned her against the wall using the scrawny boy's dubious bulk and drained her of every last ounce of energy. She let the corpse drop where it was, and went back out into the apocalyptic cacophony of the nightclub.  
  
In spite of the deep bass noise of the theoretical music and the pulsing lights that added flashes of colorful illumination to the otherwise dark scene, this place was strangely peaceful. Maybe it was all the souls crowded in here, all giving off the healthy white glow of virgin, untainted souls, fruits ripe for plucking.   
  
The substance was circulating here too. The boy - who used to be called Dell, and who was distressingly frail (but the most inviting souls often had the frailest bodies; it was something inherent in the natures of people who wished to sign their lives away) - thought of it as a "drug": ano, A, the "pink". It wasn't, or at least not as her and her people knew it. It was an elixir, a tonic made of blood of their offshoots, beings already tainted by their presence. In the old days - when they were remembered; when the meat were reverent - it was used by shamans and oracles to contact them, or even to invite them in. These poor idiot children had no idea what they were letting in. Yes, it was pure joy, but it had a price beyond money.   
  
But they didn't know. Sometimes it was just too easy, wasn't it?  
  
And this was just the beginning. Supposedly it was spreading. If it spread wide enough, most of her kind could come through. Banished from this plane, were they? How times had changed.  
  
But she was no fool. Someone was doing this; someone was deliberately bringing them back. Surely they too would have a price, a demand, something they wished of them and thought they could acquire. Perhaps followers, offspring who felt forgotten, but she knew better than to trust that. Things were happening; something had shifted, and she had a feeling they were being called in. Why? Perhaps someone needed an army, or perhaps just needed as many people as possible out of the way. She supposed she would find out soon enough. Whoever was spreading this had to have some way of finding them, no matter their new bodies. She wondered if she would recognize them.  
  
It had been a very long time, and she was still hungry. A young man blundered by, his soul clear but his body polluted by more toxic substances than a chemical spill, and kissed him, drinking his energy like a fine wine. His struggles were pathetic and momentary, and she let his slightly desiccated corpse fall on the floor, where no one really noticed. The lights were too transient, and the people too intoxicated, to notice or care.   
  
She wandered out into the buffet of sweaty, oblivious humans, looking for her kindred, and looking for a pre-midnight snack.

* * *

Mayfair was an upscale part of London, proved by the Corvette dealership they passed as they searched for the "underground". The problem was there were many upscale shops around, and none advertising themselves as the "underground", so when Ammy returned (the Sisters were hiding out in a shady area), she threw a "locator" spell, and they followed a phosphorescent trail only they could see to a small, well hidden door in an alley between a gourmet sweet shop and a men's haberdashers, which seemed like a uniquely British thing to have. (He also kept thinking about how Mayfair got a mention in that "Werewolves Of London" song. Good rhyme scheme, or did the songwriter know something they didn't?)  
  
The door looked smudged, and almost blended in perfectly with the brick façade (it was a quaint sweet shop, and the smell of chocolate and marzipan was almost crippling him), but Ammy was able to make it more visible, and Logan felt the tingling along his skin that indicated a "glamour". It also had a magical "locking spell", but Ammy scoffed at it, called it "bodgy", and "unlocked" it with a wave of her hand.   
  
The plan - such as it was - was for him to go in first. If this had any hope of working, he had to come off as the mega alpha male, which Helga teased "Is a stretch for you, huh sweetpea?" She called him that only to make Ammy laugh, he just knew it.  
  
He had showed them the note Yasha had received, but as it turned out, many(!) demons used Human blood as a writing medium, so that in itself wasn't revelatory. But Hel thought since the writing looked like calligraphy, or the kind made with an old fashioned quill pen, that it was a vampire mob (or nest, as Ammy called it), simply because a lot of old vampires did like to live in the past, at least to some degree. Many pined for the old days, when there were fewer streetlights at night, and fewer places where people congregated in large groups.  
  
Inside it was dark - no surprise there - with small candles guttering inside hurricane lamps the only illumination down a dim and narrow stairwell. His eyes adjusted easily, and he was confident in what he was dealing with now. He could smell vampires now, many of them, along with old blood and dead flesh, sex, booze, and gun oil; smelled like a party in a mausoleum. He suddenly wondered if the sweets shop was the oddest, most ironic "front" ever constructed - he was willing to believe British vampires, just like Britons in general, had a very well developed sense of irony and the absurd.   
  
He reached what must have been a sub-basement (not that a lot of them existed in England, to his knowledge), and since he heard stirring while he was coming down the stairs, he was not terribly surprised that he almost walked face first into a gun barrel.  
  
"Boy, did you pick the wrong place to squat," a husky female voice said, somewhere beyond the gun. "On your bike, arseface."  
  
Shadows seemed to uncoil from the walls of the dark room, as there were no candles down here, no lights, just whatever was reflected off the silver barrel of the gun. But he saw the shapes anyways, counted maybe a dozen people - vampires - and the same amount of yellow eyes that were almost glowing in the dark. There was a faint growling now, like gravel being chewed up in a garbage disposal.   
  
"I'm here to talk to H." He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the note. "Lady Blood sent me."  
  
There was some faltering in the growling as confusion swept through the room. He got the sense that it was as large as the sweet shop upstairs, and that the very shape of the room echoed the shop, only instead of a counter full of candy, there was furniture, mostly dedicated to sleeping, fucking, or killing. Possibly all at once. By the smell, they also had a well stocked bar.  
  
The woman - and he could see her now, yellow eyed and in vamp face, with glossy black hair held up in a loose style with an ivory comb, and a dark olive skin tone that probably put her initial Human race as Indian or Pakistani - snickered derisively, not lowering the gun one inch. "Yeah, right. Lady Blood is gonna send a blood bag to do her bidding. What do you do, work for the post office?"  
  
He could hear them behind him, smell them, and knew he was being surrounded. He didn't care. "I'm hers; I've been marked. Can't you tell? She gave me further proof, if you need it."  
  
More confusion. He knew it wasn't his words that were throwing him but the fact that they couldn't smell fear coming from him - fear, shock, surprise, concern. Nothing. He was led to believe that was an abnormal reaction.   
  
The woman took a few steps back - both to cover him more completely, and to stay out of staking range - and said uncertainly, "What kind of proof could you have? Let's see it - but slowly, or I'll put a new hole in your head."  
  
He nodded in acquiescence, and swung the sword sheathe around to the front, so she could see the mark on the haft as he drew the sword out. It was so clean and polished, the silver almost seemed lambent in the gloom. He held it upright, point toward the ceiling, and let her peer at it, scrutinizing if as if to make sure it wasn't counterfeit. "Is it real?" A slightly Cockney voice asked from the dark.  
  
"Looks it," the woman replied grudgingly.  
  
"It's real," Logan confirmed, and then quickly spun around on his heels, holding the sword horizontally. In a single spin, he neatly beheaded and dusted all three of the vampires that had snuck up and flanked him, but aimed the sword down at the floor as he came around to face the gun toting vamp again. "And no one threatens the messenger of Lady Blood. Is that clear?"  
  
She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief, and he knew it would be this very moment that decided whether they would buy it, or simply decide to kill him.  
  
Well, no - decide to kill him. He would actually kill them. They just didn't know that yet. 


	10. Part 10

"You're insane, blood bag," the woman spat, cocking the gun. "To come here and kill us in our home -"  
  
"He's got brass balls the size of the Elgin Marbles," the man said, and this time, he came out of the shadows, coming up behind the woman. He was a tall, broad shouldered black man with a slight Cockney accent, even though he had what looked like traditional tribal scarring on his cheeks and across his nose. He was not in vamp face, but he was clearly a vampire - and clearly the man in charge. "Which explains why Blood would use him." He deftly plucked the gun from the woman's hand, much to her obvious shock.  
  
"You're H, I presume?"  
  
"Hashim Hassan. I presume you've heard of me."  
  
"Oh sure," he lied, hoping he didn't put him to a test on it.   
  
"You know, your blood smells … unusual," he said, tucking the gun in the back of his pants. The woman stood off to the side, crossing her arms over her chest and looking righteously pissed, and light glinted off a gold band on her finger. A wedding ring? It looked like it - and it looked like a match for the one Hashim was wearing. A married vampire couple? Well, why the hell not? "Did Blood send you alone?"  
  
"No -"  
  
"- she -"  
  
"- did not -"  
  
"- so back -"  
  
"- off. You break -"  
  
"- him, you bought -"  
  
"- him." The Sisters said, coming down the stairs.  
  
There was a noise like a collective gasp, and even Hashim took a couple of steps back, as if serious bad news had just entered the room. Well, it had, so that made sense. "You work with Blood now?" H asked warily.  
  
"We -"  
  
"- work -"  
  
"- for whoever -"  
  
" - we want -"  
  
"- whenever we want."  
  
"Which goes for me as well," Helga said, following them down. "But I know my rep doesn't precede me, so you don't have any idea who the fuck I am."  
  
"We're here to fight, not chat," Ammy snapped, bringing up the rear.   
  
Logan could feel the Sisters standing right behind him, flanking him, and they were so close to him they were making his flesh crawl. But, on the positive side, this made the other vampires back up a bit more. Was there no one who wasn't afraid of them? (Well, they should be, but still … )  
  
"No wonder you weren't afraid," Hashim commented dryly. He could now see all the vampires in the room - there were maybe about two dozens, all races and ages (though mostly in the late teens to mid-twenties), and most were out of vampire face now, possibly to show submission to the Sisters.  
  
Logan sheathed the sword and swung it around to his back once more. "I wouldn't have been anyways."  
  
Hashim's nostrils flared, and his eyes seemed to settle on Ammy. From the look on his face, he knew she didn't smell right, but he also knew better than to comment on it. "Blood has our allegiance, which you obviously know. So why are you here? Are the Three Dragons making a move on London?"  
  
"In a way. They enlisted major help, and it looks like we may have to meet them head on."  
  
"Major help?" The Pakistani woman echoed suspiciously. Out of vamp face, she was kind of pretty. "Like who?"  
  
"Kali."  
  
This resulted in an exchange of several puzzled looks between the vampire clan, and finally the oldest vampire of the lot, an elegant looking brunette in her late thirties or early forties, with her swept up in a demur knot, asked, "Do you mean the Hindu goddess?"  
  
He nodded. "One and the same."  
  
"Holy shit," a young Asian male vampire exclaimed. He sounded so Scottish he could have been related to Billy Connolly.  
  
The woman who could have been Hashim's wife shook her head in disbelief. "We're so fucked. Why would they do that?"  
  
"Everything can be beaten," Hashim noted serenely. Logan was almost starting to like him. "If it exists, it can be killed. The question is how. And I believe that falls into your court, Camilla."  
  
The older woman nodded, revealing herself as Camilla. "I suppose." She had a clipped, upper class accent that pretty much screamed Oxford.  
  
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Why does it fall to you?"  
  
She raised her eyebrow almost mockingly. "Because I used to be a Watcher, that's why. I guess I picked a good time to get turned, considering that the Council is dead now."  
  
Picked? Was she saying she chose to be a vampire? He almost asked, but decided that was far off the subject. But it did explain why a nearly middle aged vamp was hanging around with a bunch of blood sucking teeny boppers - she was probably the brains of the operation. "There has to be some kinda demon that can at least remain unaffected by her powers. Like, what about Berserkers?"  
  
She shook her head. "No, Kali is extremely powerful, and Berserkers are as vulnerable as everything else." She stared up at the ceiling in thought, arms crossed over her chest, as she worked over possibilities. Logan watched a muscle in her jaw twitch, as if this scenario was so bad she was about to vamp out in abject fear.  
  
"Well, on the positive side, at least we know what can scare Berserkers," Hel commented.  
  
"I can scare Berserkers," Logan pointed out.  
  
"Only if they know you killed some. And even then, they're so stupid they wouldn't believe you had."  
  
Logan found himself the focus of several startled, scrutinizing glances. "You've killed a Berserker?" Hashim asked, keeping his tone neutral.  
  
"A couple, actually. Who's counting?"  
  
"Bollocks," another female vampire said.  
  
But Logan held Hashim's challenging gaze, and finally the vampire blinked first. "No, Tessa, I think he's being truthful, believe it or not."  
  
"That's not possible. How could a Human kill a Berserker?"  
  
"How could a Human be Blood's envoy?" Hashim replied, clearly appraising him with new respect. "You can smell his blood; he's clearly not an average sheep."  
  
"He might be more likable if he was," Ammy grumbled.  
  
"The children," Camilla suddenly interjected, apropos of seemingly nothing. "The children of Kali. She's one of those gods whose offspring have an immunity running through their bloodline. Still, I would say we'd need to make contact with a demon god of equal or greater power if we didn't want Kali to swat us down like flies."  
  
"She'll handle the god stuff for us," he said, pointing at Amaranth behind him, although he hadn't bothered to look. It was possible he was just pointing at the wall. "But who are these children of Kali? Where can we find them? And will they want to beat down their matriarch?"  
  
Camilla pushed her hand through her hair, almost dislodging her hair do, but not quite. It looked like she was accustomed to having glasses to straighten, but being a vampire had made them unnecessary. (Well, how many near sighted vampires were there?) "The children of Kali have historically been rejected by the divine as worse than half-breeds - they have no love for the god partially responsible for spawning them. That will not be a problem."  
  
It was the way she paused, the trepidation on her face, that made him ask, "What will be a problem?"  
  
The Scottish vampire asked her quietly, "Who're these "children of Kali" anyways? I've never 'eard of 'em."  
  
She sighed, which was pretty impressive considering vampires didn't breathe, and answered her vampire companion's question first. "I believe they're known as the Vilkacis."  
  
A shockwave of horrified reactions seemed to ripple throughout he room, and Logan heard even Helga gasp behind him. "What?" he asked, directing the question at anyone who would answer it. "Who are these things? I've never heard of them."  
  
"Be glad," Watcher vamp told him, adopting a tone of voice he'd heard Wes use before. They must have taught that to you in Watcher school. "They're a vicious type of shape-shifter. Unlike werewolves, they can control their transformations, and they are in full control of their faculties … to a certain degree. It's said that there evil god nature is more prevalent in their assumed form, though."  
  
"Shape-shifters?" Logan made a dismissive noise. "I ain't gotta problem handling shape-shifters. Or werewolves either."  
  
"Trust me, young man, werewolves could only wish they were that … powerful. These are beings of a divine bloodline, remember. And a rather unstable bloodline at that."  
  
"Yeah, well, I gotta divinity card I can play. So what's the big deal? We tell 'em their mean old grandmother is back and ripe for an ass kicking. That shouldn't -"  
  
"The Vilkacis are extraordinarily arrogant," Camilla interrupted, looking down her nose at him like he was an impudent student. "They don't mix with lessers, which is everyone who isn't them. And on top of that, they're extraordinarily violent. Please consider the irony of a vampire saying that. They live shut away from everyone and everything except when they emerge to feed or fight, and they don't take kindly to outsiders."  
  
Logan shrugged. "So? We'll just bust down the door and make 'em listen."  
  
But Camilla was already shaking her head, long before he finished his sentence. "They won't listen; that's not their way."  
  
"There's gotta be a way to make 'em listen."  
  
She threw her hands up in frustration. "Maybe ritual combat. But we won't last two seconds against demi-gods, thank you very much."  
  
"Not without a little divine intervention of our own," Helga pointed out.   
  
"Leave that to me," Logan insisted. "I will make them listen."  
  
Hashim cocked his head, studying him intently. Clearly he couldn't decide if he was insane or just completely stupid. "How, pray tell?"  
  
He met his gaze straight on, and wasn't able to keep the smirk off his face. "They've never met a Human 'til they've met me."  
  
And if they wanted a fight, boy were they in for the fight of their life.

17  
  
He left Hashim to assemble the rest of his people, while Ammy and Hel got to work on contacting any gods who would bother to talk to them, with a reluctant Camilla tagging along. Logan, for his part, sought out a Buddhist temple.  
  
He found a nice one in Northeast London, small but humble as opposed to ramshackle, and after a polite greeting to one of the monks in the main temple, he wandered back to their garden.  
  
It was small by necessity, with English trees and plants dominating what was supposed to be a Japanese style garden, with a wooden bench near a gravel path that encircled a small pond. The delicate sounds of running water, wind through the trees, and bird song blocked out the majority of the traffic noise on the streets beyond.  
  
The bench wasn't wildly comfortable, but he sat down on it, folding his legs up into a lotus position and resting his hands on his knees, classic meditation style. It was amazing how easy it was for him to do this; it was like he had always known how, even though he couldn't remember learning. Oh hell, what could he remember learning?  
  
He had thought about what Yasha had said, about Bob probably leaving him some "key" to his power, but what? Knowing Bob and his dubious sense of humor, it would have to be something Bob wanted him to do, something Logan wouldn't necessarily be inclined to do. Although that honestly left a lot of things open, his first thought was Bob would probably be pleased if he just chilled out or got introspective - and he had his answer.  
  
To meditate properly you had to completely clear your mind, which really wasn't that easy to do, but there was a trick of sorts. He concentrated on his breathing, which he slowed gradually - in through the nose, out through the mouth, in and out, serene and autonomic. He could feel his heartbeat vibrating his entire body like a drum. He was silence, he was the wind, he was inexorable and inevitable, like the tide.  
  
(It was hard to believe some of this shit, but he turned his brain off as best he could.)  
  
He was nothingness, his heartbeat and respiration were like the ticking of a clock, and he did his best to ignore the sunlight attempting to bleed through his eyelids and concentrated on the inner darkness.  
  
As time didn't exist in a void, he had no idea how long it took, or how long he was exploring the Zen idea of nothingness. But eventually there was a sudden transition - darkness to whiteness, a place of endless light.  
  
Snow? Yes, it was snow reflecting sunlight in a rolling field of snowdrifts, with skeletal black trees ringing the near horizon, frosted with ice. In the far horizon, mountains loomed like massive monoliths. Even though he was ankle deep in snow, he wasn't cold; what little chill he felt was undoubtedly psychosomatic.  
  
"See, I knew you'd find me eventually," Bob said cheerfully. He was standing beneath a snow frosted Ponderosa pine, leaning against the trunk, dressed incongruously in his warm weather gear of leather pants and a blue muscle shirt that featured a silkscreen of the movie poster for "Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" on the front.   
  
"You couldn't just tell me there was a secret decoder ring involved?" He snapped, scowling at him and their surroundings. "Why snow?"  
  
Bob shrugged, shoving himself away from the tree. "You've always seemed like a tundra kinda guy to me. It's one of the hardest places to fight, you know? In snow. 'Cause everything shows, every footstep, every displacement, and if you aren't as albino as a brand new urinal, you'll stick out like a sore thumb. Takes a special kinda guy to actually excel in an environment this hostile."  
  
He raised an eyebrow at this, wondering what point the was going to eventually get to, but his anger was aborted when he realized he was overlooking a pretty major issue. "Are you here? Are you - am I talking to you?"  
  
"Yes and no. You're talking to what I left behind. Consider me a built-in program guide." The Bob "program" then grimaced. "Shit's hit the fan again, hasn't it?"  
  
"Big time."  
  
"Yeah, see, that's why I left you this. Figured you might need it someday."  
  
"Okay, so how do I make it work exactly? What exactly can I do, beyond make telepath's brains drip out their ears?"  
  
The Bob simulacrum swept his hand out towards the icy field, and suddenly a small pond appeared, as blue as Bob's blood. "Now, if we had time, I could teach you how to do a lot of the neat stuff I can do, but we don't have time, do we?"  
  
"No. As soon as Ammy throws a location spell, I have to go fight a bunch of vicious demi-gods who can't be trusted to be honorable enough not to try an' kill me even if I do follow the laws of their people."  
  
Bob gave him one of his famous shit eating grins. "There's little honor among gods, mate. I thought you knew that by now."  
  
"I'm learnin'. So what do I need to know?" He edged forward to get a better look at the pond, but remained wary, because his sense of smell seemed to pretty much malfunctioning in this "mindscape", all he smelled was snow, so he wasn't sure if it was blood or not.   
  
Bob pointed at the pool of blue, and said, "This is representative of the power I left in you. Let it in."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I kept it separate from you, 'cause even a little power can overwhelm if you're not ready for it. But if you accept it fully, you can bring down the walls yourself."  
  
He glared at him. "I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."  
  
Bob sighed and shook his head, giving him a small, melancholy smile. "Would it help to point out, since we're in your sub-conscious, almost everything is metaphorical?"  
  
"Oh yeah." He supposed that made a bit more sense. He approached the pool with reluctance, but if it was a metaphor, it wasn't blood - it was power, energy, oddly quiescent, but still nothing more than that. He knelt down, and reached towards it, braced to feel … well, something, a jolt, static electricity, something. But when he touched it, he felt nothing but surface tension. It was water?  
  
Well, of course it was water. This was metaphor city, and being energy would have been too straightforward. It was cool water too, as cold as melted ice, and still that unrealistic blue, even when he cupped some in the palm in his hand. "There's gotta be more of a trick to it than just simply letting it in," Logan grumbled, staring into the water in his hand.  
  
"The power works solely by intuition, which is a bloody good thing, as I'd never have learned to use it otherwise. Now this is just a little bit of my powers, so you ain't gonna be able to teleport or warp reality, but you should be able to hold your own against a bunch of punk ass demi-gods."  
  
"Here goes nothin'," he said, then drank the water in his hand. It was cold and sent a shiver down his spine, but that was it. Seriously? He wasn't going to have to drink the entire pond, was he?  
  
Then, he felt it.  
  
It was like his nerves were fuses, and they were all lit. He could feel them surging to life, from the anahata chakra center and then outward, but while it was startling, powerful and almost hot, it wasn't even close to painful. If anything, it was … not quite pleasurable, but close; it made him feel instantly lighter, full of light. Full of energy, as a matter of fact.  
  
"It's a trip, ain't it?" Bob said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  
  
Before he could respond, Logan opened his eyes and found himself back in the real world, which had changed irrevocably.   
  
No, it hadn't changed. He had.  
  
He looked at his hands, almost expecting to see blue energy pulsing beneath his skin, haloed around his fingers, but he didn't. Still, he could almost see through his own flesh, see the energy pulsing through his veins, piggybacking on his blood. And he knew, if he concentrated, he could see through everything, the trees, the grass, the sky, and see its constituent energy, its true life blood. He felt strong enough to punch through a mountain.  
  
Good. That meant the battle was half over already.18  
  
There was a place in southeast Kazakhstan, in the western part of the Tian Shan mountain range, where people never ventured. Even when it was a part of the Soviet Union, the Russians never went there either.  
  
It wasn't that it was far up in the mountains - no, it was far below the snow line, which in relatively dry Kazakhstan was above eleven thousand feet. It was a relatively remote area, though, one that could only be reached via a series of wildly diverging paths and extremely rugged terrain, although that had never stopped nomads or surveyors, or the miners who ripped minerals out of the rock. Superstition that had existed for presumably thousand of years that that particular area was cursed; that people who ventured into it were never seen again, or, if they did come back, were never the same again. Their minds were somehow damaged; they came back raving lunatics, and never lived for long afterwards. In fact, they often went missing, and it was believed they were carried off in the night, or perhaps consumed by the demons that infected their soul. No one went there, and supposedly some of the people who lived near the mountains used it as a threat against their kids, to be good or they would send them there, never to return.  
  
Logan wondered if the very name of the range, Tian Shan, was a hint. In Chinese, it translated to "celestial mountains". Perhaps something meant to be taken literally was assumed to be figurative. It bothered him that he was starting to take the world more literally now.  
  
But the moment he had entered the small cleft of the valley, he felt it. The energy here was weird, like high voltage wires spitting their radiance into the ether, the molecules clotting together into a form energy almost tangible enough to feel pressing up against you. It wasn't just the hairs on his arms stood on end, but his skin almost thrummed with the power. He could taste it in the air, along with the dust and grit a hard wind kicked up, as if just for him.  
  
It was night, the sky above the gash in the mountains a deep blue-black, the stars like fragments of glass shattered against the firmament, and Logan could stare up long enough that he felt like he was falling into it - and he knew now that for all its seeming eternity, it was hollow, a fragment of a blanket that spread throughout this universe and beyond, into other realities, other universes, everywhere else but here.  
  
Oh fuck, these powers would give him a headache if he didn't watch it.  
  
Ahead of him should have been a huge rock wall, reaching to eighty feet in height, sheer enough that climbing was impossible, with enough jagged scree in the valley that it made even the attempt a death sentence. And while the wall was there, he could see something like a halo of energy, pinkish-white, like blood diluted in milk, echoing its shape. A harder stare revealed it to be some kind of spell, as see-through to him now as a bad hologram. He could hear noises now too from inside the … what, cavern? He could see that the illusion hid the open entrance to what looked like some grand hall, although whatever furniture and creatures were there had been reduced to shadowy globs in the light of strange green orbs that clung to the high walls like moss.  
  
He didn't know how to undo the spell, so he didn't. But he did know he could walk through it, despite the coalescing of energy, becoming a force trying to actively push him back. Luckily, whatever powers Bob had left him were much stronger than this spell, and he walked on, feeling Bob's energy like a fever, his skin warm and his eyes burning.  
  
He walked through the wall, and it felt like walking through dry, partially set cement. When he came out on the other side - the inside - absolutely no worse for wear, the boisterous noises that had been thundering through the hall stopped so abruptly it was like someone had turned off the switch. He felt dozens upon dozens of eyes on him, and he realized that he had walked in on some kind of party - long tables were set with various foods, many human, many actually Human pieces (oh yum), and wooden benches ringed the wall as floor pillows were strewn over the stone floor in anticipation of the orgy to come. They looked Human, although his nose instantly rejected the theory, and with the new power coursing through his veins, he could see that they all seemed to bleed that same color of pinkish-white energy as the glamour had.  
  
The silence was equally stunned and hostile. He told them, scanning the room for any sign of a leader, "I've come to speak with you about K -"  
  
And that was as far as he got before the crowd seemed to roar as a single entity, their rage buffeting him like a psychic gale, and something happened on either side him that pulled his attention in several directs at once.  
  
Four of these people stood up - three men so muscular they could have been bodybuilders, one woman who was muscled but far more sleeker than her male counterparts - and started to approach him, walking much like he walked: shoulders back, head down, eyes forward. In other words, they didn't walk - they stalked.  
  
And as they did, they transformed.  
  
It was so rapid Mystique would have been impressed, although the fact that actual physical bones could be heard snapping may have turned her off. He heard skin tearing as their muscles suddenly swelled, and their skin seemed to disappear, submerge beneath fine, small black and brown scales or beneath a smooth alabaster like marble. They each transformed uniquely, into something different from their counterparts, but it all occurred in the span of a single step.  
  
One man's head looked like it turned inside out as a new head quickly emerged, something like a huge crocodile with a large mouth full of slender teeth that glowed pinkish-white, while the woman suddenly grew talons as large as grizzly bear paws and launched into the air as razor tipped wings sprung from her back, splattering blood on the stone. The other man had become something lupine, with a muzzle full of jagged stone shards for teeth, while the last became something slightly more feline, with a slit opening on his naked torso - not a slit, but a second hungry mouth. And as he did his best to keep an eye on all of them, more of the children of Kali got up and started to move in. Far too many, suffocating him with their hot and malevolent energy; it slammed against the Bob energy surrounding him like a tidal wave against a sea wall, and he wasn't sure it would hold.  
  
Okay - this wasn't good. 


	11. Part 11

As a long claw swept down towards his face, he popped his claws and met it half way, slicing clean through a muscular arm as thick as a tree branch. There was a high pitched scream as blackish red blood splattered all over, and it seemed like a million different clawed and serrated limbs swarmed him, radiant with divine energy. He just kept slashing wildly, kicking out at anything, trying to make himself some room to move. "Back the fuck off," he roared, as talons ripped the skin on his back, and needle teeth bit through his calf. "I'm only here to talk, you fuckheads!"  
  
His rage made blue creep into the edges of his vision, and the mongrel horde actually recoiled, giving him some room to breathe. He wanted to believe it was all the damage he had physically inflicted, but he knew that wasn't it - he'd done something with his Bob energy. What he had no idea, but it got their attention. "Will you just listen to me?! Yeah, I'm like one o' you, so we can fight if you want! I don't give a fuck!"  
  
The vulture like child of Kali swooped down at him, screeching like a banshee and flexing its huge talons, but he just pulled Yasha's sword out of its sheathe and threw it, nailing it through the chest. It dropped to the floor like a sack of power tools, and the rest of the crowd seemed to get even angrier. The feline freak lunged at him, and someone tackled him from behind, grabbing him around the knees. It was good strategy to make him a Logan sandwich, but he'd be fucked if it actually worked.  
  
He stabbed out as he went down, ripping through the feline thing's face, but he had to retract his claws so he could catch himself without accidentally cutting his own face to hell. The thing around his legs clamored up his back, razor sharp claws tearing up his skin as it climbed him, and as soon as he felt its hot breath working its way towards his neck, he threw back an elbow and hit something hard enough that he felt blood as hot as coffee splash his back and scald him.  
  
Okay, that was it.  
  
He focused his rage in his mind and roared, jumping to his feet and turning into a kick that just about caved the lupine's skull in. He spun back on the advancing horde, seen through a curious filter of red and blue, and shouted, "Get back!"   
  
Again, something happened, but this time he felt it leave him like a shockwave, and several of the Vilkacis' fell backwards, others behind them stumbling as the circle of freaks around him widened somewhat. And they were freaks - he saw vaguely humanoid forms that were reptilian and feline, amphibious and canine, avian and insect, sometimes all in the same being at once: these were shapeshifters of a higher order. They were not limited to a single form at once, or constrained by the laws of physics. They were shedding power that now had a raw and fiery cast, and felt like sandpaper scraping against all his senses. He thought about protecting himself with Bob's energy, using it like a shield, and it seemed to lessen somewhat. Psychosomatic, or was he finally starting to get the hang of these damn powers?  
  
"What misbegotten offspring are you?" A woman's voice demanded.  
  
Logan looked up to see a woman in a throne made of rock, about forty feet off the ground. She looked like she was wearing not precisely clothes but gold paint, and on her head was piled about a half dozen snakes all coiled up and very still. Maybe it was a crown of some sort, or maybe it was her; her eyes were gold and slit pupiled, and it was impossible to tell from this distance if she was half reptile or what. He just assumed from her high placement and the natural arrogance in her voice and posture that she was the big cheese around here. "I'm no one's offspring," he replied angrily, before he realized exactly what he was saying. Oh well - in a way, it was true. "I'm the avatar of the Drai'shajan, and I demand a chance to speak!"  
  
The restless and angry crowd murmured and scoffed, while others gasped. The woman above barely even deigned to cock her head to the side. "The Fallen One? Has he passed?"  
  
He knew she meant died. Curious how quaint she made it, though. "Well, he's passed his powers on to me, hasn't he?" There was no better way to duck an issue than to answer a question with another question.  
  
It was almost impossible how much contempt she managed to get into a single glance. "I have no desire to listen to the nattering of some Fallen also ran - "  
  
"This concerns Kali."  
  
More gasps, but mostly of disbelief. The woman glared down at him, inner eyelids nictitating shut. "What of her?"  
  
"She's back, and I thought you might want to get in on the ass kicking."  
  
"Back? On this plane?"  
  
"No, the fourteenth dimension," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Jesus."  
  
"You're lying," she replied simply. "We'd have known if she came back."  
  
"How?"  
  
That made her arch an eyebrow at him, and he thought he saw her hair shift, as if making itself more comfortable. "Do we answer to you?"  
  
"Check whatever it is you check again. It's changed. Or do you really think I had nothing better to do with my day than come here and slice up you jerk offs?"  
  
That made the crowd rumble in disapproval, and Logan realized the people whose limbs (or other bits) he had sliced off were growing them back again, slowly but obviously. So was that a trick among the semi-evil? Good thing he learned that now.   
  
The woman with the crown of snakes made a vague hand gesture, like a model showing off the dimensions of a new freezer, and said somewhat listlessly, "What does the oracle say?"  
  
He had no idea if that was a person or a thing, but he waited, eying the horde still surrounding him. Maybe two dozen and some change, all morphed into their freaky deaky forms, with glowing eyes and brighter energy auras, all of them looking at him like he was dinner on the hoof. A friend of the winged thing pulled the sword out of her chest, an her wings fluttered weakly as she started to recover. Should he wait to ask for his sword back?  
  
Finally, a voice echoed from the back of the cave, "The hairs are black. She has returned."  
  
Everyone sucked in a hard gasp as if punched in the gut. (The hairs were black? Hairs of what? Did he even want to know?) The snake woman looked down at him sharply, as if this was somehow his fault, and asked, "Where is she?"  
  
He shrugged with his bloody hands, so she could see the gesture from up there. "We're tryin' to narrow it down. She can throw up some powerful screens."  
  
She snorted in disgust, looking away at the mongrel horde. "Amateurs. We can find her; she is of us."  
  
"So why isn't she here?" He knew asking such a thing would infuriate the crowd, and it did. They hissed like a massive agglomeration of enraged cats, and he saw the raising of spikes, the unfurling of wings, and the wet slap of slithering tentacles on stone.   
  
The snake woman glowered down at him, but her people remained where they were, snarling yet at bay. "She is a coward. It is none of your concern, cretin."  
  
Now he was a cretin? He felt like he was moving up in the world. "If you wanna work with us, I suggest you put a kibosh on the name-callin'."  
  
"Work with you? We don't need you."  
  
Wow - these guys were even more arrogant than Magneto and the Organization combined. "Oh yeah? What do you think Kali will do when she picks up on your energy? Well, she's a coward, so that's an easy guess, isn't it?"  
  
There was no way for the crowd to actually get more hostile, and yet it did; he could feel they hate like a physical thing, the pricking of a thousand needles. The snake woman continued her glare, but it was losing some of its luster. "Very well. Who is it that you work for?"  
  
Man - he wished he had a good answer for that.  
  
19  
  
He let the phone ring a dozen times, and never picked it up. When it started ringing again, Cole forced himself to pick it up, even though he knew no good could come of whatever was on the end of the line.   
  
"Yeah?" He croaked, his throat feeling dry. He had tired of trying to see patterns in the water stains on the ceiling of his cheap motel room, but they all looked like distorted faces; screaming, crying, yelling, melting. He wondered if they were damned souls burnt into the very woodwork, or just an oblique sort of warning.   
  
"Wolverine has been spotted in London," the woman who called herself Wu said. She never had told him her real name, had she? Maybe she didn't have one - he had no idea if she was actually human or not. "Are you ready to travel?"  
  
He sighed, closing his eyes so he didn't have to look at the stains of faces above him. "I - I don't think I can do this anymore."  
  
"Your siege on the mansion was mostly a success -"  
  
"I didn't realize … the guise they take. And it was so strong. It really hurt me. I just stopped bleeding a couple of hours ago." He was still a little weak, which was why he was laying down. It was a good thing he really didn't need blood to survive, not with the cherubim in his system, but still it was disturbing to see your own blood - sparkling and alive with the residue of cherubim - cascading out of you, gushing out of your body like it actually had somewhere else to go.   
  
She sighed heavily, as if he was being unreasonable. "Cole, you were warned they were tricky, as well as powerful."  
  
"Yeah, but … a kid? It looked like a kid."  
  
"Most of them there look like kids. It's disguised as a private school."  
  
"I know, but …" He didn't even know how to explain it. On the surface, part of him was unnerved by nearly being defeated by what appeared to be a kid, while another part of him was unsettled by having to actually hurt the kid, no matter what the fuck he actually was. Wolverine was one thing - he deserved whatever he got. But who had that kid been? Had he ever existed? Or was he never anything but a well constructed demon god guise? He wished he knew for sure, one way or another. "I just don't think I can take on Wolverine. I think I underestimated the other side."  
  
There was a brief pause before she replied in a voice silky with menace, "It's too late to be a chickenshit, Cole. We offered you salvation in exchange for your service, and you haven't lived up to your end of the bargain yet. Backing out is not an option."  
  
"Yeah, but -"  
  
"Would you like the cherubim to be stronger?"  
  
He wasn't completely sure what she was saying there. "Huh?"  
  
"We can give them a boost, so when you're afraid, they can take over. Would you like that?"  
  
He had to think about it a moment. It sounded kind of good, removing all responsibility from him. But did he really want something else taking over his body, even if it was the cherubim? "Do I have a choice?" He wondered.  
  
"Of course you do, Cole. But we can't have you failing us."  
  
The only way to interpret that was to assume that if he fucked up once more, there would be no more choice involved - they would do it, and he'd be stuck. So maybe he should exercise some free will while he had the chance. "Fine. How do we do this thing?"  
  
"Just stand by. We'll have our teleported bring you back here before sending you on to England. You'll feel born again." She snickered at her own joke.   
  
"Anything's better than feeling dead again," he replied, although he wondered if that was true. He was starting to think that maybe he'd never felt alive at all.

* * *

The minute he was brought back to England by Amaranth, he discovered he was teleported right into the middle of an argument. " - if we did that!" Ammy shouted at Camilla. "No fuckin' way!"  
  
They had moved their base of operations to a very musty smelling, dark library that Camilla had said was a secret off-site one kept by the Watcher's Council, and little used since most of the Council died and took the information of its existence with it. The caretaker of the arcane library was a ghost, one Anna Harkness, and Logan had thought it was a joke until he actually sensed her, and saw her shifting books around on a high shelf. He couldn't quite see her, although the Bob energy allowed him to see a kind of loose energy trail that may have been her. She didn't quite have a smell exactly, although he thought he got a faint whiff of crushed violets when she was near; mostly, she just set off his sixth sense of proximity, someone in the room he couldn't quite see or smell. It was more annoying than creepy after a while.  
  
He tried to slink down the narrow aisle of slowly crumbling books, but Ammy exclaimed, "What the fuck happened to you?"  
  
"The Vilkacis, I imagine," Camilla commented dryly.   
  
"You didn't kill them all, did'ja?" Helga asked. While Ammy and Camilla (Cammy?) were standing across from each other, Hel was sitting at a small table in the center of what could be considered a nook where several aisles converged. She was reading a book with a Latin title, that translated out to, "So, You've Decided To Become A Demon Hunter".   
  
He faced the women with a sour grimace, and told them. "No. But they're sure belligerent, aren't they?" Looking down at himself, he realized his shirt was just shredded, and there were several ugly gashes in his jeans, the edges of the rips dark with blood. He really need to invest in Kevlar clothing before taking on more demon/god things - this was getting ridiculous.   
  
"Actually, that's putting it mildly," Cammy agreed, in that slightly patronizing, upper class Brit way of hers. You could make a blueblood a vampire, but apparently you couldn't make the blueblood go away. "But they have agreed to work with us?"  
  
"Yeah, but I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could make their heads fly."  
  
Ammy snorted in that dismissive, angry way of hers. What a pair of generals: the upper class vampire Watcher and the punk Australian witch. He could just smell the pending brawl. "They're of god blood - of course you can't trust 'em."  
  
That made Cammy arch a perfectly shaped brow. "Does that include you, dearie?"  
  
"As far as yer concerned, yeah."  
  
Hel cleared her throat, gaining all their attention. "Hey, don't destroy the perfectly good myth that all women work together, okay? Not in front of the male." Hel then shifted her gaze to him. "Aren't you even gonna ask what this is about?"  
  
"God no. I don't get in the middle of women fighting; it's a good way to die."  
  
Camilla crossed her arms over her chest, and turned her frosty gaze on him. "Well , isn't that remarkably sexist?"  
  
"Is it? You're a vampire, and she's a witch. I'm outgunned."  
  
"Not exactly," Helga interjected. "You got Bob energy crawling all over you." He looked down at himself, to see if that was literal or not. It wasn't, but maybe it was before he looked. "Hon, I can sense it; it wasn't visible. I've been with Bob long enough that I can feel it."  
  
"Is that why he makes me want to cringe?" Camilla asked. "I thought it was just him."  
  
He scowled at her, then held his arms out, as if in surrender. "Fine, darlin'. Would you just like to get the sexual tension outta the way? 'Cause I've had it drag out on me before, and it didn't end well. Let me clean up, and you can ride me like a cowgirl, okay?"  
  
Helga burst out laughing, and even Ammy turned away, biting her lower lip. Camilla's face paled as her face set in a hideously angry mask, her eyes almost glowing with it. It also looked like her browed furrowed, her skin rippling, like she was about to vamp out. "You disgusting America pig -"  
  
"Hey, Canadian pig, okay? Or should I say "eh"?"  
  
Hel was laughing helplessly now, and slammed the book shut, letting it fall on the table with a small thud. Ammy had now clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away completely, but he could still hear her trying hard to stifle her giggles. Cammy looked between the women, giving them a caustic glance, but neither noticed or cared. She finally glared at him, jaw so taut he thought it might snap. "I'm glad you got your cheap little joke. But I will not be spoken to in that manner ever again, do you understand? Or I'll turn you into a bloody fucking sheep."  
  
He just shrugged. "Yeah sure, whatever. So what the hell were you two arguing about anyways?" Then he added, as an afterthought, "Eh?"  
  
That set Helga off again, and she laughed so hard she almost choked. Camilla split her acrid gaze between them, her mouth thinning to a grim line, before she said, "My idea to call in a powerful god was dismissed casually by nincompoops who want to die."  
  
Ammy wheeled on her, no longer in good humor. " Listen you, if we try an' call Yurugy, we'll probably die anyways. Or are you that thick?"  
  
Camilla turned her ire on Ammy, sparing him and Hel. "He is strong enough to take out Kali -"  
  
"He's a fucking unpredictable arsehole who will do whatever he feels like doing! He is a hybrid chaos-death god! He can't be bound!"  
  
"There's a way to bind everything-"  
  
"Not death gods, not chaos gods! Jesus, what kinda Watcher were you?!"  
  
Logan slunk over to the table where Helga was wiping tears out of her eyes, as Cammy and Ammy continued shouting at each other. He had already tuned it out, as he didn't know who this god was, but he sounded bad, and he was willing to trust Ammy's judgment. Not only did he know her (whereas he didn't know Camilla), but Ammy was by nature pretty fucking fearless - if she was balking at something, she must have had a pretty damn good reason. "What's your take on this?" He whispered.  
  
She gave him one of her famously sly, bad girl smiles, and whispered back, "I'll ride you like a cowgirl."  
  
He smirked, trying not to laugh, even though he knew she was probably serious. "And you'll use your tail as a whip, right?"  
  
"Only if you ask nicely."  
  
He pretended to tug on the collar of his shirt (it was pretty well shredded by now), and cleared his throat as the power struggle between Ammy and Cammy devolved into name calling. "Well, perhaps later. I meant about this callin' on other gods."  
  
"Ah, that. I'm gonna try and get in touch with Moros, see if he can spot me again. As for the rest of them …" She sighed wearily, running a hand through her fine green hair. "Well, if we could summon Nehebkau, we might have a way to beat Kali down."  
  
"Nehebko? That's a new one on me. What's he do?"  
  
"Actually it, it's genderless. Neheb is a snake demon god guardian of the underworld."  
  
"Not another death god."  
  
"No - it's the guard of important beings in the underworld. It doesn't cause death: Neheb is the god of infinite time."  
  
Oh man, he hated trying to keep track of all these gods. "The god of time?"  
  
She moved her head to the side in a half-shrug. "Kinda. It's really hard to explain, and none of the books I've found so far have been wildly helpful. But it can make death its bitch. And Kali is the god of dissolution and destruction, right? What is entropy but the inevitable movement of time? Neheb could freeze Kali right up and rob her of her most vital powers … I think."  
  
"You think?"  
  
She held up the musty old book she had been reading. "Mythology has fucked everything up; Bob taught me that if nothing else. There's often a grain of truth somewhere, but sometimes you're lucky to get even that. I'm going on some of what Bob mentioned once, mostly."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Tell me about it."  
  
"So why don't you tell Princess Margaret and Major Malfunction over there about this Neheb character?"  
  
Her shoulders sagged, and he knew bad news was immanent. "Only a god can contact Neheb. And I'm not completely sure how."  
  
"So we're back to square one." He rubbed his eyes, and tried to think of a loophole, something they may have missed. "Could the children of Kali contact it?"  
  
"They're demi-gods. Not strong enough."  
  
"Can you ask Moros if you get a hold of him?"  
  
She stared at him. "Moros - god of destiny and doom. The patron saint of clinical depressives and the suicidal. He barely even gets out of fucking bed, Logan - and he's a god! He's not going to respond to requests that require any effort on his part."  
  
"What about me? Can I do it?"  
  
She considered that a moment, but shook her head, looking disappointed. "You don't have enough power. You're not a full avatar."  
  
"Shit." That figured. It would have been too easy if he could have done it. Then it suddenly dawned on him, "Hey - I think I know someone who could help us."  
  
She glanced up at him expectantly. "Who? Did Bob give you an address book with his powers?"  
  
"I wish." In fact, it might be easier than what he had planned. But oh well, no one said life was supposed to be easy, right? Especially when it was filled with nothing but gods and monsters.  
  
It made him wonder which one of those he was, and if the difference even mattered anymore.  
  
20  
  
It took him five minutes to realize he had made a mistake.  
  
He had gulped down two beers from his six pack, and cracked open a third, glancing out the window wall. Of course, it was impossible to see anything through it right now; it was just clogged with overgrown plants, vines that grew up the window to make a natural screen, barely letting in glimpses of gnarled tree limbs as thick as his torso. It was a slice of an overgrown tropical jungle with a hard to define sinister aspect, and just because he really didn't want to wait outside in it, he decided to wait in the foyer that led out to the garden. Well, it did in the real world, in the real Xavier's mansion; here it was a dead end of glass and slate tiles, a place that may have looked nice in sunlight, but looked eerie and empty through its dark filter of green.  
  
Adding to it, he was sitting on a decorative wrought iron and mahogany bench, that was lovely to look at, but made your butt go numb in about thirty seconds flat. Logan tried to imagine it as more comfortable, but he was having mixed results with that.  
  
He was trying to impose himself on another mindscape, create a middle ground, and he wasn't sure what the fuck he was doing, or why he thought he'd be successful. This was all very new to him, and to be quite honest, he was just a little frightened about doing this. Not that she frightened him … well, maybe a little. They didn't part on the best of terms last time, did they? He almost couldn't remember. The meetings blurred, became dream-like in their evanescence, leaving only a vague emotional residue in their wake.   
  
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, beer can held loosely in his hand, and looked down at the tiles. These were granite, so there were no patterns to see, no shapes to keep visual interest, and his mind began to wander. He wondered how Marcus was doing with Tagawa and that whole situation, and then he thought he heard "Creeping Death", Marc's self-professed theme song (was Metallica informed of this?) in the back of his mind. It occurred to him that it would be more appropriate a theme song for the Vilkacis, if they ever stuck their heads out of their cave. Did they creep? They flew, slithered, and tackled, so why not creep? It probably wasn't a huge stretch.  
  
Just as he was wondering if he should dig out some of his cash when he was in the real world again and go buy some biker leathers (well, not Kevlar, but certainly more up to handling demon rage; god rage probably not, but what could stand up to that?), he sensed a presence in his pocket mindscape.  
  
"You're giving off such a Bob signature I almost didn't come," Jean said, coming around to sit down beside him. It was a small bench, so she sat close enough to him that their legs almost touched, and he could feel the heat coming off of her. But it wasn't exactly heat - it was power. He knew instantly she was more powerful than he was, but he could sense weaknesses in her defenses, gaps in her armor, weaknesses he could exploit if he had to.  
  
(What? Why was he thinking of her in a tactical manner? Jean wasn't his enemy.)  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm jazzed up on his power; I've unleashed my inner Bob. How else could I do this?" He held out his open beer can towards her in tacit invitation, but she shook her head, although she graced him with a small smile. Her irises were still rings of fire, and he wondered if his eyes looked like that right now, only blue as opposed to red.   
  
"Is he dead? Did he pass his power on to you?"  
  
"No. Do you know what's happened to him?"  
  
"I've heard some talk … he's been taken out, but that's all I've heard."  
  
"Yeah, he's stuck in limbo. I bet you were broken up about it."  
  
"Oh, very much so. I must have laughed for ten minutes."  
  
Well, no surprise there. Jean had never liked Bob. "That's kinda why I'm here."  
  
She raised an eyebrow at that, and stared at him as if he'd just grown an extra head through his shoulder, her lips twisting as she tried to keep a disbelieving smile off her face. "You aren't seriously going to ask me to help Bob, are you?"  
  
"No, I'm going to ask you to help me."  
  
"But help you help Bob, right? I'm not a fool, Logan."  
  
He scowled at her, wondering why she couldn't put aside her distrust for a full five minutes, but did it matter? Now was the time for the big guns of emotional manipulation. "I need your help, Jean. You should know that the bitch who did this to Bob is gonna be comin' after me next, to make sure Bob is off that plane for some time. I know what I need to do, but I'm not strong enough to do it alone. If I ever meant anything to you at all, Jeannie, help me."  
  
The first thing her expression betrayed was anger, as she had to know he was attempting to be manipulative, but then something like guilt seeped in, and seemed to be at war on her face. He simply sat quietly, waiting to see which side would win, and hoping he didn't make the biggest mistake of his life. So far. 


	12. Part 12

Jean looked away with a huff of disgust, so he drank the rest of his beer and waited to see if he'd get his ass kicked or not. Finally, she looked back at him, flames dancing in her eyes, and while she looked completely annoyed, the very fact that she hadn't attempted to hurt him was a damn good sign. "What is it exactly that you want me to do?"  
  
He fought hard to keep the smile on his face from becoming a smirk. In spite of everything, he knew that Jean would come through for him.   
  
21  
  
It seemed like once they solved one problem, a new one would rear its ugly head. It was just par for this painful course.   
  
It also seemed like their fragile group was going to fly apart at the seams any second. While Camilla and Amaranth didn't trust each other, the vampires as a whole were reluctant to trust anyone who wasn't of them, although they were in general so terrified of the Sisters - who was riding herd on them - it didn't interfere with anything. But still, Hashim didn't like the idea of Soriya (the Queen Vilkacis, or whatever the hell she actually was), whom Logan didn't trust either - either of 'em, in fact - but Logan was the sole communication conduit to Soriya, because her and her people were still hiding out in Kazakhstan until they called them into action. Soriya wanted to call all the shots, which simply wasn't going to happen, but Hashim also wanted to call all the shots, which - again - wasn't going to happen. But Logan knew he wasn't sure what shots to call, as the couple of times he had engaged in actual deicide, it was Bob calling the shots - he was just back up muscle, a spoiler, nothing more. This was where an instruction manual would have been so wonderfully helpful.  
  
It was also about this time that Ammy decided she couldn't find Kali, as the old girl seemed to have lots of tricks up her sleeve. The only alternative was to make Kali come to them, which led to a lot of brainstorming. Logan missed the first half of that, as he'd snuck back to Srina's place to see if she had any of his clothes left from the last time he stayed over.   
  
Luckily she was still asleep, making him once again wonder how much cold medicine she had actually had. Quietly searching her dresser, he found a pair of jeans that could only be his, and a t-shirt far too big to be hers. He got dressed quickly, deciding he could throw his bloody, torn clothes in the first available dumpster, and then went to pull the blanket back over Srina, as she had partially thrown it off. She still felt warm, but barely feverish.   
  
By the time he got back to the secret library of the damned, they were arguing again, and he wondered why he had come back. But Helga put an end to Camilla disparaging Ammy's spellcasting skills by suggesting they get Kali to come to them. A good idea, but now began the mulling over of how exactly they could do that. She was a big fish, and it was a given that they weren't easy to bait.  
  
If they could trust the Vilkacis, they could possibly use them, but that idea was quickly discarded, as there was no way they'd follow a script, and they couldn't afford to have them jump the gun and perhaps ruin everything. Timing was key; and, as he understood it, timing was also a bit of a pun.   
  
As it turned out, the answer was both simple and complicated, all at once. " Bob," Hel said. "The first thing she did was find Bob. His energy would attract her again."  
  
"Yeah, but right now I ain't even a blip on her radar screen," Logan interjected, leaning against a bookcase. Anna seemed to be hovering near by, and he wasn't sure if she was eavesdropping or simply didn't like him leaning against her books. "I'm not powerful enough."  
  
"Well, we can fake it," Ammy suggested. "Amp it up, or at least give the appearance of doing so. Close enough for rock and roll."  
  
"Great, let's do it," Logan agreed.   
  
And all the women exchanged looks that seemed to say "You tell him". Great - how nasty was this going to be?  
  
As soon as Helga told him, at least he could console himself with the fact that he had had worse.  
  
The next part was planning this damn thing. They needed to find a place where Kali - and them - could do some damage without hurting any errant people, which was a tall order in a metropolis like London. But the most obvious place that they all new about and would suit there purposes was Hyde Park.  
  
Because half of his army was vampires, they had to wait until after sunset, but at least the rest of them were able to get into the park ahead of them, allowing Ammy the chance to cast a "paranoia spell" , sending people fleeing the park due to overwhelming free floating anxiety and fear. It was the only way to guarantee no straggler or homeless person became an unintended victim or a vampire snack.   
  
They found a place just down a ways from the Serpentine Lido, a place where the trees thinned out and formed a natural barricade around a long expanse of thin grass leading to a packed earth path around a lake that he thought was called Long Lake, but he wasn't perfectly certain. Yet he wasn't about ask.   
  
It was a relatively cool dusk, the sky deepening to the color of bruise purple, as Ammy used a special piece of burnt wood (smelled almost like cinnamon bark) to draw arcane symbols on the earthen path. One looked something like a warped pentagram, while others looked vaguely Celtic and ever perhaps Aboriginal. A couple of large white swans glided by on the surface of the silver-blue water, unaffected by the spell, and he honestly felt them looking at him. What was that about? Did Bob's powers extend to animals? (Well, technically humans were animals, so why not? Besides, hadn't Ammy once told him something about fruit bats landing on Bob like he was some demented Aussie version of Sleeping Beauty?)  
  
As soon as Ammy was done and stepped back, she said, "Well, get yer ass in there."  
  
Ah, so polite. What a charmer she was. And she was single? How could that be? Helga showed him Bob's Bastet blessed knife, and asked, "You ready for this?"  
  
He shrugged and took off his t-shirt, toss it towards the nearest bench. No sense in getting it bloody too, not until he bought more clothes. "As I'll ever be. Let's get it over with."  
  
"I thought you only said that before you had sex," she teased, giving him a wink and a lascivious grin. He scowled at her, and headed into the roughly star shaped circle. She was now sporting the odd ovate around her eye that marked her as Moros's avatar. He must have gotten out of bed for that …. Or maybe he didn't have to.  
  
"Now you don't get to ride me like a cowgirl," he told her, taking his place in the center of the charcoal sigil.  
  
Helga pouted in an exaggerated manner, but couldn't keep the humorous sparkle out of her eyes. "There goes my weekend."  
  
"Are you through yet?" Ammy snapped. "C'mon all ready, let's get this done before I chunder."  
  
Hel quirked her eyebrows up at him, mouthing quietly, "Pent up." He hated her for that, because it was hard not to laugh, and he knew Ammy would kill him if he did.   
  
He could see the yellow glow of vampire eyes in the thick shadows at the edges of the copse, and they started coming out as dusk swallowed the wide expanse of the park. The Sisters were in the leading, but the rest of Hashim's crew were following, fanning out in a wide semi-circle but basically keeping to the trees. In total, Hashim to be in charge of a crew of over three dozen vamps, mostly young (there were a couple of them that looked like they were barely in their teens), but just about every race and nationality was represented, and - just like in the population of the world - there was slightly more females than males. It reminded him of what Yasha has said about how being a vampire made race and gender completely irrelevant; a vampire was a vampire was a vampire, no matter what shell they wore. It seemed a hard way to build a "rainbow coalition". It also reminded him a little of that old horror movie "Freaks": all of them chanting "One of us, one of us" as a welcome that was in fact a warning and a threat; a blessing that was the most hideous curse imaginable.  
  
Oddly enough, it was probably a good thing he was a mutant. Conformity just struck him as something to be frightened of.  
  
Ammy started intoning words in a language even he couldn't recognize (lately that had started to unsettle him), and Helga stepped up, keeping just outside of the loose circle, but within arm's reach of him. "Ready?" She asked, holding up the knife. Up close, it did look pretty wicked.  
  
He simply took a deep breath and nodded, clasping his hands behind his back so he didn't do something autonomic and deeply stupid.   
  
Helga grimaced slightly, and brought the knife up, resting its sharp edge on his chest, just beneath the hollow of his throat. Then she drew the tip down in a straight line, slicing open his skin along the breastbone, coming to a stop just above his solar plexus. It was a sharp enough blade that he barely felt the knife cut his skin, but he felt the warm blood pouring down his chest, as well as the burning sensation of healing as the gash healed up. It was because of that Hel had to drag the knife up again, opening the cut once more. She had to keep doing this, as the cut kept healing, and his blood needed to flow until the spell was completely recited. After two times, it started to hurt, and his healing factor seemed to be balking at this; he could've sworn the burning was getting worse. It was a shame they just weren't willing to play along.   
  
The air was crackling with something like static electricity, and boiling clouds scudded across the face of the newly bright moon as his blood pattered down on the hard packed dirt. He fought back a growl in his throat, and it was all he could do not to pop his claws and put an end to his pain.  
  
Finally, Ammy approached, still speaking something odd, and Helga took a step back, finished keep his chest wound open. She looked sorry about the whole thing, but that didn't stop her - it needed to be done, after all.  
  
The wind was starting to howl, a minor tempest on the lake shore, and after raising her eyebrows to make sure he was ready for this, he gave Helga a reassuring nod. She then slashed the knife, and cut open the left side of his face; he could taste the blade as it completely tore through his cheek.   
  
Ammy came forward and pressed her own slashed open palm (how and when she did this he didn't know - it probably didn't matter) against the gash on his face. It sounded like the blood sizzled on contact, and he could taste it in his mouth before his cut started to heal over. Ammy quickly backed up, probably still bleeding, and he felt the power surge through his body; it was a version of something called a "joining" spell, which technically couldn't be done on him because he wasn't related to any of Bob's numerous offspring. But at least he could "borrow" some of Ammy's attachments, at least for now.  
  
He'd clenched his hands together so tight he could feel the metal on his bones, so he had to release them, as his blood was absorbed completely into the ground and the circle and quasi-pentagram around him began to glow, as if lit from a fire below. He felt as if he was the center of an electric cyclone, the energy surging up his spinal column as if feeding straight from an underground source. His vision turned a sharp, almost painful bright blue, and he could feel his skin ripple on his face, as if something was standing out in relief. Veins? Perhaps. He felt so charged with power he thought it might tear through his skin on its own.  
  
He could now see ghostly lines in the air surrounding them, energy trails of … well, he didn't know what. But they were everywhere, crisscrossing lines of pale white and green, blue and red, making it seem like the "string theory" wasn't a theory at all, but the threads that held all of reality together. Threads that he coul reach out and touch … manipulate? Was this how Bob did it? Was it as simple as all that? Pulling threads apart, and putting them together someplace else? Was that all there was to it?  
  
He noticed some threads being forced apart, the firmament behind it glowing a painful black that seemed to be diseased, and he knew Kali was coming. "Tell them now!" He shouted at Ammy, as the reality in front of him seemed to rip apart, and Kali was spat out like something poisonous.  
  
To him she looked like a glowing black void in humanoid form, with a few motes of energy spread out across her body like a landscape of stars. She cocked her slightly elongated head, and he had a feeling even her look was patronizing. "You're not Bob. He can't be dead already, can he?"  
  
"Not yet," he agreed, wondering if she looked this noxious and consumptive to everyone else. "But things ain't looking' so good for you, darlin'." The area around them was now rippling, shimmering like heat waves in a desert, and she must have felt it, because she looked around, just in time for the children of Kali - every single goddamn mutated one of them - plopped out of thin air, coming to rest between them and the vampires crowding the trees, all undulating tentacles, multiple mouths, and spiky claws. Soriya was in the front, and no longer had her Humanoid form - she appeared to be reptilian, with thick, scaled legs and plated skin, and a tail that branched out into about twelve separate, whip thin tentacles, all writing like worms on a hot plate. Soriya's face lengthen to a muzzle full of crocodile teeth as she pointed a clawed digit at the dark void of Kali. "You do not reject us and leave us to the inferiors," she said, sounding as if she was speaking through a mouth full of mashed potatoes. "Pay for your sins."  
  
Kali seemed to rear back, and made a noise of disgust. "You dare -"  
  
Logan popped his claws and slashed through her neck, aware that decapitation might not kill her, but it would sure slow her down.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
The very second he cut through her flesh - which was not flesh at all, but something that seemed to have a tar like consistency - she back handed him across the face with such piledriver force that he went instantly flying, and hit the lake at what seemed to be Mach two. It was a good thing he had adamantium, a super charged healing factor, and Bob's power, or he'd have shattered every bone in his body and possibly pulped all his organs. As it was, he took a major shot to the head, and the water was so cold he couldn't breathe. But, come to think of it, that was a good thing.  
  
He flailed to the surface - it was too inelegant to call swimming - and gasped in a desperate breath as other things splashed into the water. Nothing was after him - it was Vilkacis or pieces of them, being flung by their "mother". In fact, he could no longer see Kali at all, just this huge scrum of thrashing tentacles and flashing claws, screaming energy and splashing blood. He thought he saw green in there, and hoped if it was Helga, she was being really careful.   
  
As he swam back to shore, trying his best to avoid the flung children of Kali (Mommy wasn't big on sentimentality, it seemed), he heard Ammy shouting some incantation, whether of protection or harm towards Kali he didn't know, but he hoped it help.  
  
Some of the children of Kali was littering the shore, some cut in half, their energy bleeding out with their blood, and they didn't look to be healing. So could only Mom hurt them enough that they wouldn't heal? They really didn't look like they were getting up again - now or ever - and the pile of body parts was getting larger. It looked like their first line was about to become toast. "Come on, Jeannie," he muttered under his breath, as he levered himself out of the icy cold lake, and decided that maybe he should warm up a little. As it happened, there was a gap in the demi-god dog pile, so he ran for it and dove in, popping his claws and trying to channel his energy through them, until they made a second set of phantom, energy claws.  
  
He did his best to avoid the Vilkacis, but the damn shape shifters were slithering everywhere. Many of them were screaming, but so was Kali, who was roaring with rage and pain. It took him a moment to realize the ground was starting to shake, her anger so great she was causing miniature tidal waves on the lake and creating cracks in the tightly packed earth, and the children of Kali were starting to thin out greatly. It was almost him and her alone, and he just knew that wasn't going to work, although he was willing to give it a shot.  
  
He slashed away at the lambent black thing that could only be Kali, his energy screaming off hers, almost throwing sparks, but she was so busy slugging it out with Soriya she almost didn't notice him at all. He cut into her tar like, only skin as if trying to harvest it, ripping up her back like he was plowing a field, while Soriya was trying to punch a new hole through her head in the front. They were making her hurt, they were making her mad, but that was all so far.  
  
Finally Kali threw off the last of the Vilkacis and punched Soriya through the torso; it literally went through her spine and sent her blood splattering on the ground below. Kali didn't so much turn to face him as she inverted her body, making her head shift position so her glowing eyes were facing him now, even as he was claws deep in what he presumed was her torso. "Bob avatar," she said, her voice as cold as her energy was scalding. "Interesting. Stupid. If he couldn't harm me, what chance do you have?"  
  
That was a damn good point, but he wasn't about to admit that, especially since she drove her fist right through his abdomen. Perhaps she wasn't expecting the adamantium, or maybe the intensity of the Bob energy he had called up, but she didn't punch him all the way through, just let her smoldering fist rest in the soft meat of his gut. The feeling was so startling - stabbed with a blunt object, not a blade - that he was frozen for a second.   
  
"But Humans aren't known for their smarts, are they?" She said, leering into his face. She smelled like rot.  
  
He drove one claw into the soft tar of her abdomen, and then plunged another through her glowing eyes. "No, we're not," he agreed, and ripped in two different directions at once.   
  
She made a noise of pain and tossed him like a bad habit, and he hit the ground so hard he was sure he left an inch deep imprint. And his gut fucking hurt; it burned, but not in a healing way - it was more in a "someone poured acid in an open wound" way.   
  
He rolled over on his side, prelude to getting up, but a tentacle shot out from her body and plunged through his stomach on the uninjured side, pinning him to the dirt. "You just had to show up, didn't you avatar? Oh well, that makes things easier." She said, as her head filled out, seemingly re-inflating itself like a balloon, her eyes surfacing almost as an afterthought.   
  
In spite of the pain, he felt reality ripple somewhere near him, and even as Kali formed another black tentacle out of her back, growing out of her like a living stream of smoke, she paused. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flare of bright light knife out of reality, and then Jean was simply there, her aura still flaming like a solar flare. Kali looked at her askance, and asked, "Are you here to help?"  
  
"Yes," she agreed. "But not you." She noticed Kali had him pinned down, and added, "See, that's a good way to piss me off." The energy around her seemed to surge, and she threw out her hands, sending Kali flying - a nice move in theory, but the tentacle yanked out of him quite painfully. He had to grit his teeth against a scream, and instinctively curled into a ball, the pain deciding to settle in his gut like a burning ember. He wasn't healing, or at least not at his usual rate. Maybe it was a god thing.  
  
Kali landed hard on her butt - or what passed for one - in a pile of Vilkacis' body parts, her skin(?) still sizzling from Jean's hit. But as she pulled herself back up to her feet, Jean was gone - but she had left something behind.  
  
It looked like a skink afflicted with gigantism. It was about twelve feet long, its hand sized scales an angry, inflamed red, and its cantaloupe sized eyes were black, with orange colored slit pupils, and a rather unusual sense of intelligence in them. It reared up on its hind legs, nearly becoming visible over the tree tops.   
  
Kali looked up in horror, and something had changed, he could feel something like surface tension, and looked around to notice he could no longer feel the wind. But the trees several feet beyond them were still moving around, and the lake still rippled with its movement. A bubble of anti-time? He had no idea what Star Trek episode he heard that on, nor did he understand how they could all still be breathing or able to move or function, but Neheb was in the reality, and he brought his time warping abilities with him.   
  
From the look of horror on her face, she knew what he - well, it - was, and knew how completely fucked she was. "No!" She shot out her hand, as if to send Neheb flying, but the crimson skink god remained where he was, as impassive and immobile as a statue. How did you beat the god of infinite time?  
  
It was then that the vampires came swarming out of the trees.  
  
They had axes, swords, pikes, hatches, knives, and bare hands, and they came rushing towards Kali with a battle cry like a roar, and reminded him vaguely of a swarm of angry wasps. Pissed off, well armed, demonic wasps. No wonder Yasha recommended he use her name - was there anything more frightening than a horde of vampires who thought they might get a chance to kill a god? And of course the Sisters were in there, so you just knew the bitch was dead.  
  
Kali let out a howl of frustration and rage, and shapeshifted some more of those sharp tentacles, and from the familiar screech, a couple of vamps got dusted. But that didn't stop their vicious buddies from running in and filling up the gaps the dead had left behind, and soon her tentacles were flopping on the ground like fishes out of water, completely disconnected from her body. Wow - Hashim's wife was certainly good with a battle axe.  
  
Helga crawled over to him, apparently having gotten herself tossed aside in the previous battle, and seemed to be bleeding from the mouth, with her tail drooping limply behind her, dragging in the dirt. But she didn't appear stabbed or otherwise hurt, which was a good thing.   
  
He attempted to sit up, sending a deep and terrible pain knifing through his body, and there was a pressure shift in his head that almost made him pass out. And considering the awful, acidic black fire that seemed to be radiating from his gut, passing out sounded like a really good idea.   
  
Hel must have noticed, because she put a hand on his arm, and said, "Don't." She paused and looked him over, noticing his injuries. "Are you - you're not healing, are you?"  
  
"It's this time bubble thing. I'll be okay," he lied, putting an arm over his deepest wound. Blood continued to leak out of it at a startling pace, and he was glad his jeans were already black from the water, so the blood didn't show. Of course, it didn't matter, did it? She was a demon and she could smell it.   
  
She was giving him a dubious look, suggesting she knew he was full of shit, but she didn't know what else to say, so she didn't. All she did was put her hand over his, as if trying to help hold the blood in. "Your ex really delivered," she said, clearly changing the subject. "But she's a drama queen, isn't she?"  
  
"Jean's not an ex … exactly. I'm not sure what she is. But, yeah, she's got the drama queen thing going on." Man, he didn't feel good. He was starting to feel very cold, save for that ember that continued to smolder in his gut, and tired; it was a weird time and place for a nap, but it sounded tempting. Yet even he knew how bad that was, and tried to brace himself for getting up - or at least kneeling - but Helga held him down.   
  
When he looked at her, she shook her head. "Let the vampires do it, tiger. They live to kill; it's their raison d'etre. Sit this one out."  
  
He didn't want to, but arguing with Helga was always a lost cause. But he still wanted to force himself to get over there and drive the last nail into Kali's coffin. She was screaming now, still in the center of vampire scrum, and some of the Vilkacis who could pull themselves together had now joined the fray, aware that now most of Kali's powers had been neutralized, and if they wanted to kill her, there was no time like the present.   
  
Oh shit - neutralize. That's what Kali had done to him, wasn't it? She might have punched through his stomach, but she had also punched through the Bob power he did have, and his own healing factor. She had turned it all off.   
  
No wonder he was dying. 


	13. Part 13

Even though Kali had lost her other powers, she was still physically overwhelming and capable of shape-shifting, and some of the vampires went flying, while a couple more got dusted. But, as it looked like Kali might get a chance to make a break for it, her arms were seized, and it took Logan a moment to realize it was the Sisters who grabbed her. Before Kali could react, they both jumped up, kicked against Kali's side, and lunged backwards, ripping her arms not only out of their sockets, but completely off her body.  
  
Even Kali looked shocked to come apart like the Black Knight, and she didn't even scream; she just looked at the bloody holes with her mouth agape.   
  
"Did I just see that?" He asked Helga, fighting to keep his own jaw from dropping.  
  
"Yeah. They're famous for it."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You didn't know? The Weirds are notorious for their dismemberment routine. If you're lucky, they'll play with you. If you're not, they'll just rip your arms off and beat you to death with them."  
  
Every time he had heard that, he just assumed it was an expression. "I guess that explains why everyone's afraid of them."  
  
She nodded in agreement. "Says it all pretty much, doesn't it?"  
  
The vampires quickly descended on the disarmed (the pun was unavoidable) Kali en masse, and she disappeared under the swarm with barely even a scream. She was just too stunned to even put up much of a fight - well, what fight she could put up without arms. (It didn't automatically render you helpless - he'd fought without use of his arms before. But then again, he'd just been handcuffed; maybe he'd have been much more incapacitated if his arms had actually been ripped off.) She was a shapeshifter, though, and could theoretically grow them back like her "children", but the vamps weren't about to give her the time to recover.   
  
He honestly wished he could get in there and join them, but he was starting to feel as light headed as his gut felt heavy. It continued to burn like a slow fire, and it was the only thing keeping his body warm.   
  
In spite of that, he hadn't realized he was shivering until Helga put an arm around his shoulder and drew him closer to her. "Shit, she got you, didn't she?"  
  
He wasn't sure what she meant … or was he? It was self-evident, wasn't it? He should have never gotten close enough for Kali to touch him. "You could say that."  
  
"Amaranth!" She shouted, looking around. "Damn it, where is she?"  
  
He gave the area a cursory glance, but if she got herself knocked flat, she could be under any of the assorted piles of bodies or body parts. He didn't think she was dead, as she was one of Bob's relatives, and one of his more stubborn ones at that. They couldn't die; they probably scared death shitless. He could imagine the death gods' general fear of nagging and being micromanaged by the offspring of Oberon.   
  
(Come to think of it, that whole thing with Kali explained why Angel never went after the Weirds. He probably valued his arms too much.)  
  
"Come on, lay back," Helga urged, pulling him backwards gently. "Don't let gravity help you bleed out."  
  
She was right, so he obeyed, discovering that the pain pulsed through him deeply every time he moved, and something inside him felt torn. He almost blacked out as Hel cradled his head in her lap, and shouted, "Ammy, damn it, where are you?! I'm almost your step- grandmother - don't make me beat your ass!"  
  
He closed his eyes and watched the blood vessels inside his eyes throb in time with his heartbeat, and realized it almost synched up with the sound of Kali's flesh - or whatever it was - being ripped away by the vampires, who snarled and growled like a pack of angry wolves. He bet the Sisters were probably pretty happy with themselves; they put the big hurt on Kali, possibly the killing blow of a really nasty ass god. Of course, knowing them, it wasn't even the first time.  
  
Helga was stroking his forehead, but he could barely feel it. He was falling away into himself, away from the pain, and it was nice. Odd how the absence of pain could almost be pleasure.  
  
He wondered, if he did die now, if he see Mariko. Bob could have been lying about an afterlife; maybe he just didn't want him rushing into it.  
  
22  
  
There was darkness for a time, soothing in its numbness, but then he got a sense of … something unusual, a sense of being pulled along by a familiar energy, a sense of something he needed to do.  
  
He had a feeling of breaking through something, even though he knew himself to be disembodied (a dream?), and a hallucination slowly formed before his eyes. His first impression was of green, but it wasn't the land, it was light; green shot through with crimson. The sky was the color of blood, but the clouds were the color of mold, and the light that filtered through was gangrenous.   
  
The land was covered with broken, charred, and sun baked bones from dozens of different kinds of beasts, with rib cages as large as boulders sticking up like railroad spikes, and the flesh of god knew how many demonic beasties decomposing in the corroded light. Logan was glad he couldn't smell it, because he bet it was pretty damn rank. Whatever had happened here, it looked like the aftermath of a war - blood had soaked into the ground and turned it as black as swamp mud.   
  
He saw the body of a large demon that looked like a cross between a Berserker and Godzilla, with leathery skin the color of ochre, and saw something moving beside it. It formed into a tall, dark figure pulling hard to remove a sword from its side. " - cheeses, or just one of their minions?" A familiar voice asked. Who was that?  
  
The figure finally managed to dislodge the sword from the eight foot demon, and said, "I'm thinking minion. They seem to be avoiding us." The voice ... Angel?  
  
Yes, it was. He could see him now, sans his usual long coat, with torn clothes stained by the blood of dozens of things, including some of his own. He hoisted the blood slicked sword to his shoulder and looked around, as if scanning for more enemies. His posture was weary, but his dark eyes remained sharp and alert.  
  
"They're cowards," a female voice said, It had an oddly flat cadence, as if she wasn't accustomed to the language, and it was full to bursting with anger and arrogance. "They think they can hide." It belonged to a woman standing on top of another demonzilla corpse, who on cursory glance appeared Human, but blue scales freckled her forehead and tainted her otherwise brown hair, nearly matching the blue of her emotionless eyes. It wasn't a Bob blue, but it was close, and he thought she was giving off a familiar, semi-divine vibe. Her leather uniform was also blood spattered, but not torn at all, and she didn't appear tired in the least. "They think they can escape the inevitable. They're idiots."  
  
There was a scoff, and someone who had been sitting on the ground near one of the titanic corpses used it to stagger to his feet. "Pretty clever idiots. We haven't caught up to 'em yet." Spike. He too was in shirtsleeves, lacking his usual coat, and just as bloody as everyone else, but perhaps slightly more so, because he currently had a bleeding gash in his side, and appeared to be limping slightly.   
  
"We will," Angel averred. He sounded like he believed it.  
  
"And they will choke to death on their own entrails." The woman agreed.  
  
Spike snorted and shook his head, patting his pockets as if searching for smokes. "I bet you're a ball at parties, Smurfette."  
  
The woman cocked her head to the side, as I f listening to a signal only she could hear, and said, "There's someone here."  
  
Angel held his sword at the ready, and Spike rolled his eyes, abandoning his search for a smoke, and yanked what looked like a spear out of a near by corpse. "Where are they?" Angel asked, looking around, frantically trying to take in everything at once.  
  
"It's not demonic," she said, sounding confused.  
  
Similarly confused looks passed between Spike and Angel, but Angel asked her first, "What is it then?"  
  
The woman did not answer. She simply gazed at their surroundings, and Logan realized she was talking about him the moment before her eyes settled on him. They were wide and so utterly devoid of anything Human, he wondered what she was exactly. And what was he? He knew he had no physicality here, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some kind of … well, projection, maybe.   
  
(But, okay, was this a dream or not? He could hardly astral project into different dimensions, even if he was dead. Wait … if Kali died, it negated her hold on Bob, right? Did it also negate what she did to him? Did he get Bob's power back in a rush?)  
  
Logan felt her eyes like knives impaling him to the spot, but there was no actual malice. She had no idea who he was, but didn't consider him a threat - yet. Spike followed her gaze, and he seemed to do the slightest double take, squinting as if to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. "What the fuck..?"  
  
Angel looked at him, and his eyes widened in obvious shock. He started walking towards him cautiously, as if he was a shy animal he might scare away, and dug the sword into the ground, leaving it behind. Logan almost said something, but what could he say? _'Are we all still alive?' 'Do you know where we are?' 'Where the hell have you been?' 'Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck is going on?'_  
  
"Lo -" Angel began to say, peering at him curiously. But that was as far as he got, as Logan suddenly felt something like an elastic band suddenly boomeranging him back, out from the black and into a blue as bright as a supergiant star.  
  
Logan opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a familiar face. "Thanks for the help," Bob said, giving him his usual Cheshire Cat grin.  
  
He sat up, Bob's hand falling off his chest, and Logan took in everything around them. Skink god was gone, and so was Kali, although she may have been those black smears in the dirt and along the path. There were still some corpses and gruesome fragments of body parts, but about two dozen vampires were still alive and loitering near the trees again, some clearly nursing injuries that wouldn't be too easy to shake off. The Sisters were near by, though, still looking oddly bright and cheery in that completely fucked up way of theirs. Ammy was sitting on a wrought iron bench, rubbing her head (she must have been clocked by somebody - or something), and Helga was still sitting in the dirt beside him, but she was no longer bleeding. Logan didn't even need to look to know he wasn't bleeding either - clearly Kali had died before he was completely lost, and Bob had shown up in time to yank him back from the edge.  
  
"I guess I don't need to ask if we won," Logan muttered, dry washing his face.   
  
"Won and done," Bob agreed. "And all things considered, it must have been humiliatin'. Killed by vampires. Gods get hazed for that kinda thing."  
  
"But -"  
  
"- we -"  
  
"- get the -"  
  
" - job done -"  
  
"- better than them."  
  
Bob nodded, conceding the point. He looked oddly sparky, well rested, as if this whole thing had been a vacation for him instead of an assassination attempt. "Yes, you do, but ya know that just adds to it." Even though he didn't ask, he helped Logan up to his feet. Bob gave him an unusual look, a single quirk of an eyebrow that said a lot. "What is it, mate?"  
  
He looked at Hel, not sure Bob would be totally straight with him. "Did I die?"  
  
She look surprised, which could have been a good sign or a bad one. "Today? No. You were dying, but like many men, refused to commit. Why?"  
  
He shook his head, but Bob asked, "See somthin'?" It was not actually a question.  
  
Logan sighed, and wondered if he should tell them, but Bob could just yank the info out if he wanted to. "Can you … is it possible, with your powers, to look into another dimension?"  
  
Bob pondered that, looking slightly stumped. "Ya mean like, psychic projecting? Yeah, I can do that. Did you do that?"  
  
"I think … I dunno." He told them what he had "seen", and the Sisters drifted over, seemingly rapt by his tale. After he finished, no one said anything, so he threw up his hands in defeat, and asked, "Well? Was I hallucinating or what? I didn't recognize that blue chick."  
  
"It's quite plausible," Bob told him, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's possible that a sudden power surge, coupled by your desire to find out what happened to Angel … yeah, that could've happened."  
  
"So where are they?" He wondered. "Can you find them?"  
  
Bob sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest, grimacing in a way that Logan didn't think was good. "My guess is they're in some hell dimension, probably one of the Senior Partners' main vacation spots. Considering they're still alive and don't seem to be hurting, my guess is it was a ploy by the Partners to wipe them out, a trap that clearly backfired. Maybe the Powers finally got off their omnipotent asses and threw a little protection his way. Maybe they knew all along that the Partners would try something like this, and certainly Angel - stubborn bastard that he is - would try and take them on, and in their own damn backyard too. You gotta love cajones like that."  
  
"It's -"  
  
"- amazing -"  
  
"- he's never -"  
  
"- been staked."  
  
That made Helga frown at them dubiously. "What about you two?"  
  
They gave her those wonderfully empty stereo grins, the ones that made you want to crawl under a bed and hide for a few years. "Everyone's -"  
  
"- welcome -"  
  
"- to try."  
  
"Uh, finding them?" Logan prompted.  
  
As he feared, Bob shook his head. "The Partners exist in several dimensions at once, and it would be impossible to narrow it down to one. And I hate to tell ya this, but I'm not a good a bloodhound as you are."  
  
"Also, don't they hate you?" Helga added.   
  
"The Partners?" Bob shrugged. "Well, who doesn't hate me at this rate?"  
  
"But if I can find them accidentally, why can't you?"  
  
"I don't have the connection to Angel that you had, for starters. And, two …" Bob paused, biting his lower lip nervously. "Well, that might have been a little bonus thrown your way."  
  
"Huh? By who?"  
  
Strangely enough, it was the Weirds who answered first, their odd eyes sparkling with a malevolent sort of glee. "The -"  
  
"- Powers -"  
  
"- have a -"  
  
"- vacancy they -"  
  
"- need to fill -"  
  
"- and you're the -"  
  
"- bettor's choice."  
  
It took him a minute to understand that, although considering it was from the Sisters, that was probably normal. Okay, Angel supposedly got sucked into helping the Powers That Be, even though it didn't seem to help him much. The PTB's seemed like arrogant god types that preferred other people to do their dirty work, which was par for the course, and Bob was supposedly their "fallen" member, and they weren't too fond of him. But Logan already had a connection to Bob, and there wasn't a huge logical leap there. "Oh hell no!" Logan snapped, instantly furious. "I'm tired of bein' somebody's puppet! No fucking way!"  
  
Helga patted him on the back. "Maybe they won't even approach you. No one can predict what they'll do; they're gods, after all."  
  
It was a small hope, but at least it was something. "Right. Besides, I'm a killer. Somehow, I don't think that makes me an ideal spokesperson or whatever."  
  
"So -"  
  
"- was -"  
  
"- Angel, that's -"  
  
"- why they -"  
  
"- picked him. They -"  
  
"- want warriors for -"  
  
"- the cause, ones who -"  
  
"- want to atone for -"  
  
"- their sins." The Sisters volleyed, still grinning at him.  
  
Logan glared at them, not appreciating the parallels, or the bad feelings that the memories brought. "There's some things you can't atone for, no matter how long you try."  
  
"Don't be too sure about that," Bob said, giving him that wise 'I know more than you' look that Logan honestly despised. He wanted to rip it off his face and stomp on it like a cigarette butt.   
  
Logan glowered at him instead, and said, "Tell them no on my behalf, okay?" He then stalked off towards the bench, where his t-shirt remained draped on the back, unharmed, perhaps the only thing in a half mile radius that was.  
  
Some ironies were just too much to deal with.

* * *

The core group of Hashim's vampire mob survived, including Camilla, Hashim's wife (whose name was Ghita), and the Asian Scottish vampire (whose name was - of course! - Scott) who somehow ended up with part of a broken sword lodged in him, and cursed like Groundskeeper Willie on a bender when they ripped it out of him. He also passed out for a bit, but they just carried him off like a sack of potatoes.  
  
All in all, it went well. Hashim did lose some of his people, but was pleased to kill a god and put a crimp in the Three Dragons' plans (Logan was secretly glad that he reminded him he'd said that), and thought that Lady Blood would be proud of him as an envoy, as he had a lot of guts "for a Human". He felt like he was being patted on the head and told he was a "good dog", but as he watched Hashim's eyes scud briefly towards his hands, he knew he'd never actually touch him - he'd seen the claws, and decided to keep his distance. So pretty smart for a vampire.  
  
A few of the Vilkacis survived, but not many, and not Soriya. Still, he had no idea how broken up they were by the loss of their "queen", as they skedaddled pretty quickly after collecting their body parts and their dead. They didn't speak to anyone, but that was okay, as no one was lining up to speak to them.  
  
Logan snuck off as soon as he was able. He had no desire to talk to Bob anymore right now, as he had a lot to think about right now. There was that whole Angel hallucination thing for one, and Jean for another. In retrospect, wasn't Kali's reaction to her odd? It was like she knew Jean, even expected her. _("Are you here to help?" "Yes, but not you.")_ They knew each other somehow, didn't they?  
  
Had Jean helped Kali before?  
  
It didn't make sense … but, come to think of it, how did Kali escape from the underworld dimension she got trapped in? Even Bob wasn't sure … but Jean hated Bob. Almost as much as Kali hated Bob.  
  
Oh god. She didn't, did she? Was Jean in on this all along? Was that why she almost laughed when he asked for her help? He knew she didn't like Bob, but would Jean betray him - and he couldn't help but think of it that way - by trying to kill him? Didn't she know what that would do to him? Was that the point - misery loving company?  
  
He knew becoming a repository for Camaxtli's energy had changed her - how could it not? But he never, ever wanted to think of her as an enemy. But maybe she was; maybe his first strange instinct when he met with her on the psychic plane was the right one.  
  
No. He was willing to buy a lot of things, but not that - not yet.  
  
(And Bob was shitting him about that Powers That Be thing, right? Had to be. The Sisters loved yanking his chain, and Bob probably couldn't resist jumping in.)  
  
He got the queer feeling he was being followed, or at least watched, but couldn't spot anyone. Could have been a demon, or just someone smart enough to hide, and the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for him to scent them. Whoever or whatever it had been - if it had been; he was still rattled by the fight, whether he wanted to admit it or not - he cut a serpentine pattern through Piccadilly Circus and deliberately lost them in the crowds. Thankfully, London had lots of places to cut through - especially at night - if you wanted to lose someone: Piccadilly, Soho, East End, Battersea Park, and the Docklands were all good places, depending on what area of the city you were in. (How did he know that?)  
  
He made his way down to Chelsea (and caught himself humming a song it took him a minute to identify: Elvis Costello's "I Don't Wanna Go to Chelsea". It was awful to discover your subconscious had abetter sense of humor than you did) and Srina's King's Road flat, certain he hadn't been shadowed. Even if he had, King's Road was a busy enough place that he could have lost them. Or, better yet, lain in wait for them.  
  
He caught the faint, familiar scent of apple scented bubble bath in the inner stairwell, and knew Srina was awake finally. He just wondered what kind of state she was in as he rapped lightly on the door. "Sri? It's me again."  
  
After a moment, she shouted, "Come on in, Logan. If you're brave enough."  
  
The door was unlocked, which was unusual for her, but he guessed she was expecting him to return. Once inside, where the air was fragrant with steam, apple scent, and the vaguely fruity scent of black current tea, she came out of her kitchenette wearing a long, tightly belted red satin robe, cradling a steaming ceramic mug in her hands. She glanced down at the floor, making her short magenta hair hang down in her face, and the strands that were still damp looked dark purple. "Brave enough? Does this mean you're going to tackle me again?"  
  
He smiled, but she grimaced in embarrassment, looking away before he could see her cheeks flush. "I'm … god, I'm so sorry. I was really stoned out of my gourd."  
  
"And you should apologize too. I mean, any woman who wants to jump my bones oughta get her head checked. Shame on you." He could barely keep a straight face.  
  
Finally, she looked at him and chuckled, her eyes tired but otherwise clear. He could barely smell the virus on her anymore; it was pretty much dead. "I should've expected that from a man, huh?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But you didn't exactly jump my bones, did you?"  
  
"Only 'cause I was busy. I was hoping to get a rain check."  
  
She glanced out the living room window. "Is it raining?"  
  
"It's only a figure of speech."  
  
She looked back at him, eyebrow raised, corner of her mouth quirked up. "Oh, I don't know. It's London; if we wait around long enough, it'll start. But you didn't just drop by to visit me, did you?" She nodded at his jeans before taking a sip of her tea.  
  
He glanced down, and saw what she meant. His jeans had dried from his dip in the lake, but they were still splattered and splotched with demon blood and his own. "Would you believe I cut myself shaving?"  
  
The look she gave him pretty much told him "No". 


	14. Part 14

"It's a very long story."  
  
"Synopsize."  
  
"I had to kill a god. In Hyde Park. Some vampires helped me."  
  
She stared at him for such a long moment, he had no idea if she actually heard him or not. Or believed him. Perhaps it would be better if she didn't. "You know, you could have just said you got in a fight at the pub."  
  
"I got in a fight at the pub."  
  
She shook her head, putting her teacup down on the arm of her sofa. "You know, when I first met you, I thought you had the most fucked up life ever. How did it get more fucked up?"  
  
He shrugged helplessly. "I ask myself that all the time."  
  
She crossed her arms across her chest and studied him, as if trying to figure him out. (Good luck.) "Do a lot of gods hang out in Hyde Park?"  
  
"Not that I know of." He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, find blood in it. Shit.  
  
"Does this mean you're heading back to the States?"  
  
"No." He tried to casually wipe his hand on the leg of his jeans - well, they were destined for the trash anyways. "I still have some stuff to do here. Think, uh …"  
  
"Think what?"  
  
Well, he'd started to say it before he honestly thought it through, so now he was pretty much damned to finish it. "Think I could stay here? I mean, while I'm in town?"  
  
She gave him a sharp look, eyebrows beetling over her magenta eyes. "What the hell kind of question is that?" He was braced for her to chew him out. He had no idea why she would, but he also knew women usually had a reason for doing so, or at least could find one. But her expression softened, and she rested a hand on his chest, lips curved up in the barest hint of a smile. "Of course you can. In fact, you'd better, or I'll kick your arse."  
  
He smiled back at her, sliding his (non bloody) hand over her. "Well, with a threat like that, how could I refuse?"  
  
He leaned in to kiss her, and their lips barely brushed before she reared back almost violently, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Bloody hell, Logan. You smell like a slaughterhouse."  
  
That made him pause. He supposed he did, but he'd gotten used to it quite a while back. "Oh. Mind if I borrow your shower?"  
  
She pointed down the hall, towards her bathroom. "I'm insisting on it."  
  
"Fair enough." He walked away, taking off his still clean shirt (well, it smelled fine - probably the only thing that did, but it must have counted for something) and balling it up in his hands. He almost tossed it on the couch, but he didn't know if she'd appreciate that. At the threshold of the hall, he stopped, and told her, "But this is good news, right? If you can smell me, you cold's gone."  
  
"You have five seconds before I throw something."  
  
"I'm going," he sighed, turning away before she saw his smile. Strange woman - man, had he missed her.  
  
Maybe he had found a good reason to stay in London.  
  
24  
  
No one ever asked him, but if they did, Osiris knew he could voice several good reasons why there should be no new gods. This included the old gods being allowed to breed or split off or throw themselves into avatars or whatever it was they had to do to keep their tainted line going. Absolutely no new ones were needed, and in fact lots of the old ones needed to be disposed of anyways. And he knew several cases in point.   
  
One arrived now, much as he expected. The remains of Camaxtli, harbored in the Human once known as Jean, appeared in a flare of light that was clumsy and unnecessary, but the newbies were always startlingly inept and inelegant. She materialized behind him, but he didn't bother to turn. He waited for her to come around before he acknowledged her presence. She knew he knew she was there, and was deliberately ignoring her. It ticked her off, which made him mildly happy.  
  
"Guess whose name just popped up on my book?" He said, tapping the pantheon of dead gods. (In spite of its size, and the need for a separate pedestal, there weren't nearly enough pages filled.) He looked up at her to find her gaze somewhere between unaffected and annoyed.   
  
"It was a bad idea in the first place," she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "She was unstable, and since she killed one of her own, she didn't have many friends."  
  
"I was unaware this was a popularity contest. I thought we were just trying to get rid of Bob."  
  
"It wasn't going to happen. We never found another god for Logan to avatar."  
  
He cocked his head and studied her flaming aura of barely contained energy that reached into the ultraviolet. Did Camaxtli really study his subject before making her an avatar? It was a very good bet he acted rashly, without thinking, and could now repent in leisure - well, if it was possible for the dispersed to repent. "I suggested someone. It seems he wasn't good enough for you."  
  
She glared at him, lips parting slightly in what he took to be an expression of shock. It made anyone who used it look so completely idiotic. "Matuku? He's a cannibal!"  
  
"No - cannibals eat members of their own species. He eats Humans, who are of a lesser species."  
  
"But Logan's a Human! You'd turn him into an avatar for a goddamn people eater?"  
  
"Matuku is stronger than Bob."  
  
"Matuku is a mental case. He lives at the bottom of the Marianas Trench."  
  
"At least he lives in your dimension." As she rolled her eyes and looked away, he told her what he knew she would reject, simply because it was the truth. "You don't belong among us."  
  
She turned back sharply, her eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"  
  
He slammed the book shut, but mostly for effect. "It means you're still Human. You never had any intention of going through with this. As much as you dislike Bob, you still care for that creature down there. Which is he, I forget - the one you lust after, or the one you love?"  
  
It was meant to get at her, and it did, proving his point. She was vulnerable to Human levels of feeling, which had no place here. Higher beings called for a higher level of awareness, of sensitivity, of consciousness, and she had none of it. She belonged back with the dregs, with the Humans - with Bob. "Do you really wish to anger me, Osiris?"  
  
He gave her the same dismissive wave she had given him, and went to shelve a book of new dead. They were filling up at a rapid clip lately, and he couldn't be more pleased. If she simply went back to the bipedal cesspit she crawled out of, he'd be elated. "I wish you'd go away, Jean Grey. Return to your people until you're ready to ascend to the next level, if you ever are. Even Bob is more divine than you are, and I wish you knew how disappointing that is."  
  
He had anticipated her attack, the surge of irrational, Human anger that sent him slamming into his bookcase, that caused the books to swirl around him, caught in the tidal forces of a very small and targeted hurricane of crackling energy. Rage made her aura turn more of a Camaxtli red, but it just made her seem smaller by comparison. She would never even be half as great or formidable as him/her; she wasn't even tangible enough to be a shadow. She was more like a fragment, an echo of a shadow blurred by time and erosion. Quite pathetic.  
  
"Don't you dare speak to me that way," she roared, her anger echoed in the pulse of energy surrounding him. "And don't you dare use Human as an insult! Just because I'm not the conscience free necrophiliac you are does not make me your lesser!"  
  
In spite of the force pinning him to the shelf, he snarled at her, "You are Human, and that's your problem. Have you ever wondered why there's no half-breed gods, ones part Human and part other? Because physically your species is too weak, and your emotions and intellect are too frail. You cannot and will not see the bigger picture. You will not kill a thousand to save a world - you will not destroy a universe to save another. What Bob needs to be destroyed for - his failure as a higher being, his disgrace, and his fatal sentimentality - is what you see in yourself, Grey. And that's why you won't kill him, and while you'll be an even worse excuse for a higher being."  
  
He expected the hit, so he wasn't surprised when it came, although he was surprised at its vicious force. He actually tasted blood in his mouth, felt it crawling down his face. (The feeling he didn't like - but the taste did have a certain appeal.) It looked like her face was on fire now from all the waves of unstable energy rolling off of her, but it was shot through with the occasional flicker of black - the fear that he was right. (Of course he was - who was the actual god here?) "Don't you ever compare me to him. Not ever! You don't know me, and you don't know what I was, or what I've become!"  
  
He blinked the blood out of his eyes, not bothering to hide his disgust. "I am Osiris. I know everything I need to know about the beings who will join my library."  
  
"Don't think Bob is the only one who could kill you, you pathetic little ghoul," she threatened. "Maybe you'll come back again and again, but it would be fun to see how often I could wipe you out before I got bored with it. I still have the power of Camaxtli - and you're still nothing."   
  
She disappeared in a flare of light and energy, a consummate drama queen, the fabric of the universe ripping open and repairing itself after she had passed through, like she was a fatal anomaly. And she was, so that made sense.  
  
With her absence, the books fell to the floor, and he was released, finally allowed to relax and wipe the blood off his face. The stupid little bitch. Precisely who did she think she was dealing with?   
  
He was the offspring of Re, the king of the underworld, and the judger of the dead. Ultimately, whether people died or not was often thrown to him - if he rejected them, they were forced back. If he accepted them, they were his. There was no such thing as a time limit; if he wished, he could reject someone days after their death, weeks … years. The dead were his power and his people; the dead responded to him, because they could respond to no one else.  
  
He had one of his vines pull a certain book off the shelf, and reach across to give it to him as he returned to the pedestal in the center of the room. "Nothing, am I?" He said angrily, rapidly flipping through the book. "I am Osiris; I am the King of the Dead. Which you, you stupid little halfling, are going to learn the hard way."  
  
Poor Jean Grey. She was going to get a lesson on just what a "nothing" could actually do.  
  
25  
  
The weather cooperated for the funeral, which was probably a minor miracle.  
  
It was gray and overcast, but it didn't rain more than simply mist, droplets so tiny and fine they got everything damp, but never fully committed to rain. It seemed very somber and appropriate.  
  
Srina came with him, although she never knew Wesley; she wanted to be supportive, and figured spending a Saturday at a funeral had to be the worst thing ever. But Logan didn't feel that way, not really. It would always be a terrible thing that Wes was dead, and while part of him didn't quite believe it (he thought he could just pick up the phone and call him), another part of him was glad he was finally getting some peace. He didn't know the details of Wesley's life, but he got the impression that Wes was a haunted man, constantly trying to make up for something he had or hadn't done, trying to live up to a standard that he knew was impossible, trying to know and anticipate everything in a world where that was simply beyond anyone's reach.  
  
The funeral home took care of the arrangements, meaning the invites, and Logan supposed that was best, as he knew nothing about how one invited people to funerals, or even who to notify - did Wesley have any living family? Friends? Were there enough Watchers alive to bother showing up?   
  
Bob and Helga were waiting at the cemetery, a very well tended and elegant looking place, with high stone walls and wrought iron gates, some kind of Watcher cemetery, he supposed. Perhaps that explained why it seemed to take up several acres.  
  
Bob told him that he and Helga weren't visible to anyone else, because he figured a couple of demons might be slightly distracting among so many Humans. Logan wanted to comment, but couldn't, as Srina didn't see them either.  
  
A little over a half dozen people showed up, not counting the four of them, and he found himself scanning for familiar faces among the sea of dark clothes and black umbrellas, although he had no idea why. He and Wes rarely hung out in the same social circles.   
  
That's why it stunned Logan to actually see a face he thought was familiar. An older man, probably early fifties but looking very good for it, the quintessential Brit with an open face and lines that made him look distinguished as opposed to aged, and small wire frame glasses that made him look like a university professor. Logan felt a shock of recognition, mostly for him but also for the jailbait blonde on his arm (considering she looked young enough to be his daughter, he hoped she was), but he couldn't immediately recall where he'd seen either.   
  
A man who looked like he was a Church of England deacon started the service as the last stragglers showed up, and Logan did his best not to stare at an older couple he thought might be Wesley's parents. There was kind of resemblance, mostly on the woman's part, and she seemed pretty broken up. The man, though - he got a bad feeling about the man. Maybe it was just a "stiff upper lip" stereotype he was cultivating, but he was scowling more than anything, glaring at the grave as though he expected Wesley to come back to life, crawl out, and start noshing on people's brains.  
  
About five minutes in, Logan remembered why he hated attending funerals. They started depressing, and yet became painfully boring, which made you feel guilty for wanting to ditch and get a beer somewhere. There was no way to win.  
  
As the deacon said things that sounded like empty platitudes, Bob started singing quietly in the background, and Logan wondered if it was a comment on how boring it was all becoming, or just him being himself. "I hope you enjoy your stay in this next universe," Bob sang quietly, heard by no one but Logan and Helga. "I hope this love is a silver screen that shows only silent films …"  
  
Logan wondered how many funerals he had attended in his life and had forgotten. Jean's was bad enough, but then, of course, she wasn't really dead at all. And he hated himself for thinking - even just for one moment - that maybe she would have been better off if she had simply died.  
  
(He never had a funeral for Leonie, had he? Shit. How could he do that? Maybe he was never a father to her, save for in a strictly biological sense, but that was the absolute least thing he could have done. Maybe Xavier made sure she wasn't sent to a potter's field or whatever it was they did with nameless corpses. Or did the Organization try and take her, since they had killed her in the first place? Rather than do something for her, he simply ran - and even that ultimately didn't work, not the way it should have.)  
  
Now he wondered if his desire to see Wesley get a proper burial was a case of transference, a belated desire to make amends for his failings. He had so many failings, and had known and lost so many people. Where did you start, and when did you stop? Did you ever stop? He knew the old adage about time healing all wounds was a lie; the best you could hope for was that the pain lessened to the point that you rarely noticed it anymore.  
  
The deacon reached the end of his prepared remarks, and then asked, "Would somebody else like to say a few words?"  
  
"Go on Logan," Bob prompted. "Why don't you say something and personalize this event?"  
  
He looked at him in disbelief, and hissed, "I'm no speaker!" Immediately, he realized that no one else had heard Bob, and he must have looked like a complete nut, talking to himself.  
  
But the deacon, an older man with snow white hair and the faintest hint of a Welsh accent, looked at him curiously. "But you'd like to say a few words anyways?"  
  
Oh shit. Bob had set him up, hadn't he? Fucking bastard. He gave Bob a dirty look before grimacing at the deacon and nodding. He went around the grave, coming around to where the deacon had been standing, and cleared his throat, giving the small crowd a cursory glance. Bob gave him a thumbs up, and it took all of Logan's willpower not to give him the finger in response.   
  
He really didn't know what to say, nor was he sure that everyone here knew Wesley was a Watcher and what that meant. You could assume they did, but what if he was wrong? He looked down at the empty, yawning grave, and the gleaming beetle black coffin, and just started talking. "I didn't know Wesley as well as the rest of you probably did, but he was bravest men I've ever met. He knew the odds against him were always staggering, but he still did what he had to do. Because, if he didn't, who would? Someone had to stand up, and he did. He went out of his way to help me, and to help others who would never - ideally - have any idea who the hell he was, or why they would need his help. He never sought attention or reciprocation; he almost never asked for help, even when he probably should have. He had to know that every day he got up was potentially the day he would die - the odds were always stacked against him; he was just a man - but it never stopped him from doing it, never stopped him from fighting. He died fighting the good fight, and the world will never know it … but it will miss him." He cleared his throat again, feeling awkward and maybe a little embarrassed - what the fuck did he know about anything? He could barely string two sentences together.  
  
He retreated to his previous position, beside Srina, and she twined her arm around his and leaned her head against his shoulder. "That was beautiful," Bob told him. Logan thought the dirtiest curse words at him that he could, and tried to ignore the fact that he had actually made himself sad.  
  
The service came to an end shortly after his little speech - he liked to think his clumsy elegy helped put the final nail in the theoretical coffin - and people started to drift away, as the rain started to come down in earnest. Srina still held on to his arm as they walked away, and she asked, with honest curiosity, "Are you okay?"  
  
He nodded, still thinking about holding Leonie's lifeless corpse in his arms, fragments of her brain congealing on his face. He really needed to call Xavier. "I'm okay. Just thinking about death."  
  
"What a happy -"  
  
"Excuse me," a man's British - and familiar - voice interjected from behind them. "Could we have a word with you?"  
  
Logan turned, and recognized the slightly owlish older man in the tweed suit he had noticed before, the one who was slightly familiar. Up close, his identity popped straight into his mind: Giles. Right, the Watcher turned vampire turned suicide bomber in the universe where he killed Spike. It was so weird to come face to face with someone you saw die violently. "Uh, sure," he said, then glanced at Srina. "Meet you at the car?"  
  
She frowned at him, aware she was being dismissed, but she clearly made the decision to give him hell about it later. Wow, it was like they were becoming a real couple or something. "Sure." She gave Giles and his blonde girlfriend a skeptical glance, then kissed Logan on the cheek and started off towards the front gates.  
  
She was a meter away before Giles asked, "You know Wesley from Los Angeles, yes?"  
  
Logan nodded, wondering what this guy was leading up to - and why his little piece of tail was staring at him so intently.   
  
"Were you there when ..?"  
  
"No, I missed it, I was outta town." Bob and Helga came up behind them, but of course they didn't notice them - they were the invisible mourners. "Why?"  
  
"Well, we were wondering if you knew -"  
  
"What happened to Angel?" The girl suddenly interrupted. She was American, definitely Californian. "Will can't find him with a locator spell. Is he … did he get killed?"  
  
"Logan," Bob said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Meet Buffy. This is one of those Slayers that's been mentioned before. She's also Angel's ex - big long story there - but rest assured she'll welcome any good news. And nothing you say will be considered weird to them. Trust me, they've been there, done that, and have the syndication rights."  
  
So not Giles's trophy tail? That was kind of a relief; she seemed way too young for him. Logan looked between them, and wondered if there was a good way to put it, one that made sense. No, probably not. "No, he's alive. He's just in another dimension."  
  
She let out a small sigh of relief, and Giles asked, "Which one?" Like 'How's the weather' , like it wasn't the most fucked up thing in the world to say. Bob was right - there probably was no shocking them.   
  
"A, uh -" Would Hell dimension go down well? Probably not. "- one controlled by a Senior Partner. Does that make sense?"  
  
"The evil law firm thingies?" She asked. He nodded, and she looked up at Giles. "Does that narrow things down at all?"  
  
Giles was forced to shrug. "Not … exactly. If they are the beings I believe them to be, they have a great deal of territory."  
  
"Poor Giles," Helga commented. "Even in retirement, he doesn't catch a break." Hel then patted Logan on the back, and started walking off towards the gate. "Good luck, tiger." So she and Bob knew him - them? Why not appear in front of them then?  
  
"Is he trapped?" Buffy asked, looking at him almost expectantly. Did she want him to say yes, just so she could hit something?  
  
"No. I think that was the intention, but last I saw, I think Angel managed to turn it around on them. I think he's hunting them down in their own dimension."  
  
Giles looked at him with newfound curiosity. "Are you a psychic?"  
  
"No, I just … uh, it's a long story, but it involves psychic projection, I think." Or wishful thinking, but he decided not to add that. "I'm not really … under normal circumstances, I can't do it. So please don't ask me to do it again, 'cause I can't." Logan felt that spot between his shoulder blades start to itch. Someone was staring at him. He glanced around idly, but didn't catch anyone doing it. Yet the itch remained.   
  
"I don't mean to be rude, but are you a demon?" Giles asked, straightening his droplet spattered glasses. He could have simply asked him, 'Are you here on business?' it was that casual. The world was fucking nuts.  
  
"No, I'm a … I'm a mutant."  
  
"Oh." That seemed to pique his curiosity. "Not one with psychic abilities?"  
  
"No, purely physical."  
  
"Yeah, the muscles kinda give that one away, Hercules," Buffy commented, jerking her head towards his arms. "Angel's okay? You're sure?"  
  
He decided to keep lying. Once you already had, the sheer size of the lie didn't seem to matter that much. Gnat sized or elephant, a lie was still a lie. "Yeah. He was kicking their ass. As soon as he finds a way back, I'm sure he'll return."  
  
"I'd bet on that," Giles agreed, looking down at the girl and giving her a tight, ironic smile. "It's not like he hasn't done it before." Okay, what had he missed?  
  
The girl sighed again, but nodded in acceptance. "He once said he was like a bad penny, always turning up. He'd better too - I don't wanna have to kick his ass again."  
  
"It's okay," Bob said, and belatedly Logan realized he was putting a minor "whammy" on the pair of them. "No worries. Time to go now."  
  
"Well, it was nice meeting you," Giles said, the epitome of upper class British manners. "I'm just sorry the circumstances were so … unfortunate."  
  
"Not as sorry as I am." Who the fuck was staring at him?! Where the hell were they hiding?  
  
"Wesley would have … well, I think he would have embarrassed by what you said, actually. But I can only hope that someone says such lovely things about me after I'm gone."  
  
"You're not going anywhere buster," Buffy said, a minor threat. "Remember the plan?"  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"We all die old in bed. And not the same one, no matter what Xander said."  
  
"Well, thank god for that," Giles remarked, as the two of them walked away.  
  
As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to Bob, not sure if he should be angry or grateful. "Why'd you send them packing?"  
  
"Who's staring at you?" Bob replied, answering a question with a question. "I'm not seein' anyone. Think it's a threat?"  
  
Logan looked around, brazenly this time, hoping to show his particular "watcher" that he knew they were there. But there was no reaction, no obvious sign of anyone turning away. "I dunno. You'd kinda hope no one would stage an attack at a funeral."  
  
"You would, but then again, who cares much for propriety nowadays? Even in England, it's a rare thing. Direction?"  
  
Logan closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on the limited clues he was getting. It seemed especially hard now, as he was in no mood for this. His mind kept wandering to Leonie, to Wesley, to death and all the people he had failed. He wanted to get a good self-pity on; he didn't want to have to assess threats.   
  
He shut off his mind as best he could and let his instincts take over, the one damn thing in his life he could usually trust when everything else failed him. He pointed, unaware of the actual direction until he opened his eyes. His finger was aimed straight at a thick, gnarled oak tree a few meters away from the cemetery gates. Someone hiding behind the tree, or up in it? Its branches spread out wide, so heavy with leaves you couldn't see the sky through its limbs, even when the wind came up.  
  
"Stay here," Bob said, and walked straight towards the tree. "You, show yourself now, and do it non-violently. You want no trouble here, and none with him."  
  
In spite of his "order", Logan came over, getting really fucking pissed off that someone would try something at a fucking funeral. Didn't demons have a single smidgen of respect for anything? And in a Watcher's cemetery, of all things - wasn't that playing deep in enemy territory anyways?   
  
It was a humanoid figure that came out from behind the tree, and as Logan tried to storm past Bob, he reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him back. "I'm gettin' a really weird energy pattern from this guy."  
  
Logan ripped his arm out of his grasp, and sniffed the air, picking up something new, beyond smell of graves and decay, living Humans and their smell, dirt and rain - it was … slightly Human, slightly familiar, and slightly electrical. And ever so slightly dead. It made Logan paused, more than a little confused. "Yeah, I know what you mean. He smells weird -"  
  
Then the man emerged completely from behind the tree, hands loose at his side, an empty expression on his strangely ashen face. He was once again struck by that incomplete sense of déjà vu, that feeling he had seen him once a long time ago, but his mind wouldn't instantly supply the identity.   
  
But as he stared at the young man, he had a sudden flash of memory: he could see his facial expression contorting in shock as he ripped the rifle out of his hands…  
  
Oh shit. Holy fucking shit.  
  
"Logan?" Bob asked, obviously picking up on his sense of horror. But Logan couldn't speak for the moment; he was honestly struck dumb.  
  
He had done it then - he had taken the nanites and they had worked. And they had brought Cole Mullaney back from the dead. 


	15. Part 15

"Logan?" Bob asked, turning to look at him. He looked confused, but just staring into his eyes, Logan knew Bob had just seen his memory. "Holy shit," he breathed, turning back to face Cole.  
  
He just stood there in front of them, shoulders slumped, hands loose at his side, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and a long tan colored canvas jacket that looked like it had seen better years. In fact, the jacket seemed far too large for him, and Logan couldn't help but wonder if he was concealing a weapon.  
  
"Nanites exist. You know, that's actually pretty fucking cool," Bob commented, crossing his arms over his chest. "But how cool is that for you, Cole?"  
  
It seemed to take a minute for the "push" to work, but finally it did. "I don't wanna be here," he said, his voice surprisingly soft.   
  
"Do you mean here in London, or alive?" Bob asked.  
  
"I'm not alive," Cole replied flatly. "None of us are alive. This is Hell, and it's a joke. I just wanna rest; I don't wanna do this anymore."  
  
The shock of the dead man in front of him was starting to wear off, although the guilt of having killed him lingered. He knew after finding the kid's grave empty it was possible that he actually got up and walked off, but he didn't think it of it quite so baldly. The kid actually got up and walked away from having his skull caved in. Jesus Christ.   
  
"What do you mean?" Bob prompted. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I was supposed to kill him," he said, pointing at Logan. "Or at least try. But … I'm afraid. I can't do it, 'cause I'm too scared. The increased cherubim didn't help."  
  
Logan looked at Bob, but he looked as confused as he did. "Huh?" They asked in unison.  
  
Cole spilled his guts, and it all seemed impossibly surreal. Supposedly the "powers that be" assigned him a task to rid this world of certain people (amazing how these "powers that be" sounded like the Organization), and they gave him "cherubim" (nanites by the truckload) so he would be able to counter the demons of this realm who would oppose him and try and hurt him. In exchange for this "good work", he would earn a "get out of Hell free" card.   
  
And Cole was absolutely terrified of him; Logan was his own personal Satan, the boogeyman to end all boogeymen. But he knew he should be, as he was the man that murdered him, was he not?  
  
Bob had made sure no one else could see them or hear them, and as the rain got worse, soaking them all to the bone, he wished Bob could do something about the weather. But, no, he'd probably have to call Storm for that.   
  
Cole broke down in tears as he told them how he had been sent to sabotage a machine that fed on innocent souls (it sounded, oddly, like Cerebro), and how he had to kill a demon that looked like a kid, but he almost fucked it up, and now he couldn't quite get past the idea that he hurt a kid, even though it was really a demon.  
  
They were both horrified by that, but Logan was ready to throttle him. "Who did you fucking hurt?!" He demanded, trying not to panic. If he killed ones of the kids, he'd murder him a second fucking time. "Give me a name!"  
  
"He doesn't know," Bob told him, and he knew just by the look on his face he was trying to will him to calm down. He didn't want to calm down, not here and not with this guy. The guilty pity he had felt for him minutes ago had simply evaporated. Kill some kid, and all bets were off. "Now, you stay here and talk to him, I'll be back in a second."  
  
"What -" But he had barely finished the word before Bob blinked out of existence. Was he off to the mansion to check on the kids? Why didn't he take him with? But looking at the drowned wreck that was Cole, he supposed he knew exactly why Bob had left them alone. "Sorry Cole -" he began, and started towards him. Or at least he did mentally - he couldn't actually move his legs.   
  
Oh shit! "Stay here" had been a push, hadn't it? "Goddamn it, Bob!" He snapped, to thin air. Cole was sobbing still - perhaps; it was now raining so hard it was hard to tell - and hadn't noticed the comment at all, or at least didn't react to it.  
  
He looked and seemed pathetic. So much so, he found it almost impossible to keep angry at him, at least at the homicidal rage level. Bob would fix what he could - Logan knew that, and he actually trusted him to pull it all back together within the realm of his abilities. And since he'd apparently glued his feet to the ground (bastard!), he couldn't take his anger out on him anyways. Yelling didn't feel that cathartic when the guy was barely cognizant enough to appreciate it.   
  
Staring at him, he could see just a hint of a shimmer underneath his pallid skin, like his complexion was flecked with mica, and you could see it in his eyes, miniscule arcs of electricity traveling between nanites, and it was all he could do not to shudder. He was just a receptacle for them now, wasn't he? It worked, so now the Organization was taking advantage of his delusions and pumping him full of them. Probably the only reason Cole had anything approaching free will at all was due to the fact that the nanites themselves had nothing approaching sentience: they simply followed their program and did what they were constructed to do. Anything outside of that was beyond them - luckily for Cole, and possibly everyone else.  
  
Seized with a sudden curiosity, he asked, "Did you - would you have killed me? That night, the night you died … would you have killed me first?" He didn't add "if you could", but he thought it.  
  
His stare was glazed, almost drunken, and he seemed to look straight through him, but he still responded. "It was our big score, our way out. I didn't wanna kill anybody … but I didn't wanna go to jail. The cop couldn't leave. We were all in way too deep. I didn't want it to go that way, but …"  
  
"A cop was already dead, and what was one more, as long as you could get away?"  
  
"Yeah. We didn't really know about you. Well, maybe Mike did, I think he said something about a crazy guy in the area, but who cared? If you got in the way, we could take care of you." He paused briefly. "Or, well, so we thought. I mean, if we'd known then you were some kinda demonic assassin, we prob'ly would have just waited you out. We just thought you were a crazy guy. "  
  
Logan snickered. So he had been tagged and dismissed as the "crazy guy"? Amazing how a bunch of desperate junkies turned robbers and hopeful drug dealers had pegged him so well, so quickly. It was probably a talent; shame the guys wasted it on a lame crime that had no hope of working. "You intended to kill Lily," he asked, clarifying, "The cop. You intended to kill her."  
  
"Well, yeah. We had no choice."  
  
And there it was. Logan let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It shouldn't have made it okay - and he knew, logically, that it didn't - but something in him relaxed, uncoiled, the guilt draining away until it was a trickle. He could almost never claim a killing in self defense without some sense of irony, but he could here; killing to protect someone else didn't make him any less a killer, but it did make it justified. It made it almost karmic, in fact; the big bad guys expecting an easy target, and coming face to face with him instead. Killers facing off with another killer - let Darwinism reign, and may the worst man win. He knew that was usually him, so he wasn't overly concerned as far as the outcome was concerned. Maybe Lily was eventually killed, and it was his goddamn fault (and hers, for showing him compassion), but in that instance he did what he could to protect her that night. He had the defense that he wasn't in his right mind - and he wasn't; he almost was, but not quite - but he couldn't imagine his reaction being much different if he was completely sane.   
  
Aware he was on the spot, Logan admitted, "I am sorry. I mean, that I killed you." He'd never had to apologize to a dead man before. And while he meant it, he knew the fact that he was sorry about it had no bearing on whether he would do it again; if he had to do it over again, the outcome would surely be the same. He was simply sorry he ever had to kill.  
  
Cole shrugged, and Logan didn't blame him. What did you say that?   
  
Bob popped back into existence in the same exact location he had been occupying before he left, and he actually took a deep breath, as if he'd been running all the way. "Okay - it's okay."  
  
"What d'ya mean it's okay?" Logan asked testily. Well, he really hadn't wanted to stand here, having a conversation with a guy he once killed, who was now being royally fucked by the Organization, and all while getting drenched. (Srina had been right about the rain …)  
  
"Saddiq managed to hang on - in critical condition, but hey, it counts," Bob told him, as Logan realized he was perfectly dry. It was raining on him, and he was still perfectly dry. What the fuck? Mini force field? Could he not share it?   
  
"Saddiq?" Now there was a name he recognized, mainly because he was a hard kid not to remember. It was not just because he was one of the Eden kids, although that helped; no, it was because he was ultra-serious. Not in a Scott "I'm so anal it hurts" way, but in a "I could kill you seven different ways with a single finger within four seconds" kind of way - intensity squared. He was a cute little cub that was still a tiger, no matter how you looked at him. But then again, he was engineered and trained to be just that, and Logan always felt a sympathy towards him. From birth, his future had been laid out for him, regardless of how he felt, and now that he was free to do his own thing, he wasn't sure how. Saddiq was kind of like the son he never had - or the clone, whichever. Logan shifted his gaze back to Cole. "How the hell did you hurt Saddiq?" And really, was it any surprise that Cole almost got his ass kicked by him? Saddiq could do it. He was a "kid" in age only.  
  
"I altered my hand to adamantium, the hardest substance they can replicate. His skin … it wouldn't break, and he was trying to kill me. I had no choice."  
  
"You keep saying that, 'you had no choice' - bullshit," Logan snapped angrily. "You were not mind controlled, not back in Bear Creek, and not at the mansion. You did have a choice in both cases, and you made the wrong fucking one."  
  
"To be fair, I think he was slightly mind controlled back at the mansion," Bob interjected. "He doesn't know what reality is. He thinks this is hell."  
  
"It is," Cole said flatly. "Only I know it."  
  
"This is not hell," Logan said dismissively. "I've been there. And I don't hear 'Girl From Ipanema' playin'."  
  
"MacArthur Park is much worse," Bob assured him.  
  
"Well, they both suck."  
  
"Especially when played on a Hammond organ. It's the great equalizer."  
  
Precisely how had they digressed to this point? "Saddiq's okay?"  
  
"Yes, he will be. Luckily, he's a tough kid."  
  
"Everybody else okay?"  
  
"I think so. I haven't gone to fix Cerebro or whatever - I felt it took a back seat."  
  
Logan nodded, agreeing with that. Why did the Organization want to futz with Cerebro anyways? Then he realized they must have been afraid Xavier could find their mutant foot soldiers. Were they intending to send them out after him, or someone at the mansion? "Can you fix it?"  
  
"Oh sure. What are nanites but little machines? I can fuck up machines without even intendin' to."  
  
He was sure Bob was making a partial joke, but was serious enough that he didn't have to worry about it. "What do we do with him?"  
  
Bob didn't answer, simply turned to face Cole. "What d'ya wanna do, mate?"  
  
He shrugged. "I just don't wanna do this anymore. I'm tired. The cherubim don't really let me sleep anymore; I don't dream. Occasionally I remember gettin' killed, but that's it."  
  
"Would you like me to remove the cherubim?"  
  
Cole seemed to hesitate, but then nodded, shoulders slumping as if giving up. "Yeah. I can't do this anymore."  
  
"If I do, you might die, Cole. They're the only things keeping you functioning."  
  
That just got a shrug. "Will I be in a better place?"  
  
"It oughta be more peaceful."  
  
He sighed, "I'll take that, as long as it's over."  
  
"How do you get in contact the Organization? Or the powers that be, whatever you call them?" Logan interjected, before Bob could do anything.   
  
"I don't. They get in contact with me."  
  
"Even when you're traveling?"  
  
"They gave me a phone."  
  
"Can I see it?" Bob asked even though it wasn't a question.   
  
Cole took a cell phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Bob. It looked like an ordinary flip phone that fit snuggly in the palm of his hand. Bob tossed it to Logan, and he caught it deftly. "I disabled the tracking chip," Bob said, just as he was about to open it. "But you might want to formulate a plan before you close in on them."  
  
"Killing all the fuckers isn't plan enough?"  
  
"It's a start. But it's not strategy, mate. You have no idea what you'll be going up against. They know you, they know you're a threat, and they're usually ready for you. Make sure you're ready for them."  
  
Bob was hardly telling him something he didn't know, but with a sigh he tucked it in his pocket. There was no way he could talk Xavier into a full on assault against the Organization, was there? Although, come to think of it … Scott had a minor grudge against them, and Saddiq - when he was healed - would probably like to get a piece of them. He knew he could get Marcus in on it, and Helga (when did she miss a fight?), and if he could find Spider, he could have quite a strike team. Oh, and the Sisters - after seeing them rip Kali's arms off, he knew he just had to them on the team. Of course, if Bob came along, he probably wouldn't need anyone else - but would it be as satisfying? Personally, the thought of The Sisters being released on the upper echelon and playing tug of war with their limbs warmed his heart.  
  
Bob said something in a language Logan didn't recognize, and held out his right hand. Reality seemed to warp in a limited area around his hand, and a cell phone appeared in his palm, a cell that was an exact replica of the one Logan had just put in his pocket. "You can clone phones?"  
  
"If they know it's missing, the jig's up." Bob opened Cole's coat, and slid the phone in his pocket for him. "I want them to think their nanite experiment suffered a catastrophic failure, so they don't pump any more poor schlubs."  
  
"It's not gonna stop them."  
  
"Of course not. Technology doesn't stop. Once that genie is out of the bottle, it can't be forced back in, I know that, but we can delay it's general release. If they think there's a fatal flaw in the design, it will force it back to R & D. That oughta set them back a year at least."  
  
"You're an evil genius."  
  
"Of course I am; I'm a business man." He clapped his hands together, and said, with achingly false cheerfulness, "Are you sure you want to do this, Cole?"  
  
The sad man in the soggy canvas coat nodded, letting his chin drop to his chest. "I just want this over with. I don't wanna be in Hell anymore."  
  
Bob, oddly enough, went to hug him, and it seemed that the very moment he embraced him, Cole sagged forward, going limp in his arms, and his smell changed instantly to one of decay. He was dead, just like that; Bob wasn't kidding about being able to fuck them up.  
  
He then moved Cole's limp body behind the tree, propping him up as if he was sitting against the trunk. He almost could have been alive, as long as you didn't catch the smell. "Poor guy," Bob whispered quietly. "He should have been dead, and those blasted machines brought him back."  
  
"He tried to kill Saddiq. I can't feel all that sorry for him." But he did feel some pity for him. He was just a stupid kid, a stupid dead kid, who was a puppet for the Organization beyond the grave. And he had killed him in the first place. What a shitty fate.  
  
They started away, leaving the cemetery, and after a long, awkward moment of silence, Bob said, "I thought you might want to know that I've decided to try and track down Angel."  
  
"Really? Good. Why'd you change your mind?"  
  
Bob shrugged, and he sensed he was being ingenuous, but he changed his mind there too, and admitted, "It'd be worth it just to see the look on the big lug's face if I saved his hash."  
  
Logan snickered, just imagining that. If Angel had been shocked to see him, think how fucking pissed he'd be to see Bob. Happy but pissed, a reaction Bob was probably accustomed to by now. Logan saw Srina, in her junky little Citroen (a million dollars, and she still drove that crappy car), and she waved at him before wiping condensation off the inside of the window.  
  
Bob patted him on the back, and it was so unexpected it nearly made him jump. "Think long and hard about this. The Organization is like an invasive cancer - you can cut away all the parts you want, but it will always come back. They know you, they'll be ready for you."  
  
So he had known what he was thinking. But didn't he always? "Then I'll give them something else."  
  
Bob didn't respond to that, just grimaced. "Just take some time off to relax, and think about it. There will always be time to get them."  
  
Logan didn't know which was worse: Bob being slightly condescending, or the possibility he was simply telling the truth.  
  
Shit. This was never going to end, was it? They would be after him - and he would be theirs - forever.

* * *

EPILOGUE  
  
Logan knew what he was doing was so wrong, and yet he was hard pressed to care.  
  
He'd been lingering around London for two weeks now, and Srina hadn't gotten sick of him yet, although he supposed that was only a matter of time. It felt like he was playing hooky, although from what he had no idea.   
  
He had called Xavier a couple of times, to make sure everything was okay, and to figure out how to ask about Leonie's body. That was where him being a telepath paid off, because he guessed what he was trying to ask, and told him Leonie was buried in a cemetery outside of Westchester, as he thought it was the least the poor girl deserved, and he also figured that was what he would want, as soon as he could think straight. (Logan was almost offended by that comment, but let it go. He wasn't honestly sure he had been in what passed for his right mind since then.) He gave him the address, and Logan decided when he returned to New York, he would see her first.  
  
Word of his "status" as Lady Blood's consort had gotten around the city, and as a result, he discovered he could tell the vampires of London almost anything and have them obey. He could walk into bars and tell them to hunt elsewhere, and they would leave - grumbling, but they would leave. He could get used to bossing them around, but he knew if he kept it up much longer, Hashim might get pissed off. Not that he cared, but he would hate to have to kill the guy after he helped him out with Kali.  
  
He was still thinking about what to do. The phone had never rung, and with them knowing Cole was dead you'd think it wouldn't ever, but then again, it was probably a number they intended to reuse. He wasn't sure what he would do if - and when - it did.   
  
Srina had found the phone and asked about it, and while he considered lying, he decided what the hell, and told her an edited version of the truth. (Well, edited because the nanite/dead thing was too fucking weird.) After he told her it might be his way to track them down at their new header quarters, she stared at him like he had just sprouted claws through his forehead. "Are you fucking insane? Don't you remember Chimera?"  
  
He should have known that would open an old wound, and he knew then he really should have lied. But later on that night, after she had some time to think about it, she told him, "You know … if you need some invisible help with this whole … thing, let me know. Just don't expect me to fight. I break into places and steal things - I don't kickbox like an action hero."  
  
"How can they fight what they can't see?" He replied, smiling. He knew what it took for her to make that offer, and he appreciated it. Someone who could be invisible to cameras as well as people might even be more useful than a teleporter. But could he justify ever putting her at risk again?  
  
He felt like he was finally putting a workable action plan together - would the Organization expect him to attack now, especially after all this time? And with a new strike team? - but he had yet to put it in motion. Xavier would object if he heard about it, so he knew he couldn't catch wind of it, not until after the fact.   
  
The night before he had decided to try and track down Spider, Yasha came back to him in a dream.  
  
They were back in Ammit's sylvan realm, and Yasha was sitting by a marble fountain he had never seen before. In fact, wasn't it where Ammit had her hot tub? Yasha smiled so wryly at him he knew instantly something was wrong. "What is it?" He asked, sitting beside her on the black marble bench.   
  
"The Japanese have a saying, something about the tallest nail being the first to be hammered down. Am I even close?"  
  
"Well, kinda. I know where you're going, anyways."  
  
"Great. Well, it seems you've attracted some high powered attention."  
  
"Again? Who this time?"  
  
She shifted uncomfortably, and sighed. "The Powers That Be got in contact with me."  
  
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "No. Tell them no."  
  
"You haven't even heard about what."  
  
"I don't care. No."  
  
"They seemed to think being around Bob had tainted you towards them, so they had an offer for you. There's something going on in California they want taken care of. Their champion would do it, but he's otherwise occupied, so they'd basically like you to do it."  
  
"No. If they want a "champion" to do it, tell 'em to go get Angel back."  
  
"They seemed to imply he was busy doing something else for them."  
  
He stared into her black eyes, but saw no deception there. She was telling the truth, at least as she knew it. So was Angel stuck in that Hell dimension on purpose? Was it part of some master plan? If so, Bob was never going to find him, or, even if he did, he couldn't help him out in any way. "Well, I ain't their lap dog. So, no. They can find someone else. What about Rags? He ain't much, but he can bring the wrath of the Gorgons down on people. That's gotta be considered nuclear level armament."  
  
"They seemed to know you would be … reluctant, so they're offering you an exchange."  
  
"An exchange?" What was this, hostage negotiations? "What, I do this for 'em and they bring Angel back?"  
  
"No. You do this one thing for them, and they'll help you regain some of your memories."  
  
He felt his heart skip a beat. "What?" On the one hand, the offer was incredible - get his memories back. All of them? Would he finally know what his fucking real name was? On the other hand, he knew the more he learned about the past, the more he didn't want to know. Maybe there was a good reason he didn't remember, one that went beyond all the mindfucking.  
  
"In fact, they said they'd give you a sample. I'd take it if I were you, samurai. I've never heard of the Powers making a deal with anyone. Good luck." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.  
  
"Wait -" he began, but then stopped, as it hit him.  
  
What he wasn't exactly sure what at first - it just felt like he took a lightning strike directly to his prefrontal cortex. Fire spread through his neurons, jumping synapses, the pain so white hot he couldn't even scream …  
  
…He was in a forest, old pine trees clustered around him, their needles making a soft bed for the thick ferns and wildflowers that covered the ground. There was a small path trampled into the ground, but already it was being grown over by berry vines and alpine grass. Up ahead the woods thickened, casting every thing in dark shadows even though the sun hadn't set, and when the chill breeze shifted, he smelled something familiar.  
  
Blood. Waiting for them up ahead, thick and fetid, new and old. Logan felt his stomach turn, and knew this was going to be bad - worse than the previous scenes. And the killer was still there, wasn't he? He couldn't shake the feeling of eyes somewhere, staring as if trying to bore a hole through his skull by will alone.  
  
"Sheriff?" MacDonald asked, nervously gripping his shotgun tight as his eyes darted furtively around them. Obviously he couldn't smell it - good for him.  
  
"Go back to town, get Doc Withers," he ordered, keeping his voice low.  
  
"What?" Mac asked anxiously. He lowered his weapon, aiming it ahead of them. "Is there something wrong? D'ya think he's -"  
  
"Go," Logan growled, making sure his voice was so hard the boy wouldn't even dare consider disobedience. "Now."  
  
The scrawny young man swallowed so hard Logan could hear his Adam's apple bob, smell his fear. "Y-yes sir," he agreed, quickly heading back down towards town. He tried not to crash through the underbrush, but it was hard for him to avoid doing so, both in his haste and his panic.  
  
This was going to be ugly - very ugly. And he didn't want any witnesses …  
  
Logan jolted awake, eyes open and staring at the ceiling before he could even form a conscious thought. "Oh fuck no," he snapped, glad Srina was already in the shower. "I was never a fucking cop!"  
  
But as Logan rubbed his dry eyes, he knew he'd be unable to live with himself until he found out what the fuck that was all about.   
  
Bastard Powers That Be. They didn't take no for an answer, did they?

* * *

To Be Continued…. 


End file.
